BaF5:P5nB 

■"■'••          ■ " 

INTENTIONS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

Research  Library,  The  Getty  Research  Institute 


http://www.archive.org/details/decayoflyingpenpOOwild 


INTENTIONS 

THE  DECAY  OF  LYING 
PEN  PENCIL  AND  POISON 
THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST 
THE    TRUTH    OF    MASKS 


BY 

OSCAR  WILDE 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANP'S 

i9°5 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
Brentano's 


THE    DE  VINNE    PRES8 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction vii 

The  Decay  of  Lying i 

Pen,  Pencil,  and  Poison 57 

The  Critic  as  Artist,  Part  1 93 

The  Critic  as  Artist,  Part  II 151 

The  Truth  of  Masks 219 


INTRODUCTION 


Paradox  is  never  so  absolutely  king  as  when  you 
try  to  determine  the  separate  ways  of  life  and  of 
literature.  The  poet  lives  his  life,  you  say,  and 
that  is  one  matter ;  the  poem  lives  its  life,  and  that 
is  quite  another  matter.  Between  the  writer  and 
his  writings  the  discriminating  must  observe  di- 
vorce. .  .  .  Then,  directly  contradicting,  is  the 
theory  of  the  goodly  who  are  touched  with  the 
taint  of  Puritanism.  Every  written  line,  these  hold, 
is  the  intimate  expression  of  self.  The  sinner  can- 
not write  other  than  sinful  things. 

The  farther  you  fare,  if  you  would  reach  dogma 
on  this  point,  the  deeper  will  you  mire.  Paradox 
alone  rules.  And  rules  nowhere  so  supremely  as 
in  the  case  of  Oscar  Wilde.  If,  on  the  one  hand, 
we  plead  that  it  is  the  man's  letters,  not  his  life,  that 
posterity  should  cherish;  on  the  other,  it  is  folly  for 
us  to  forget   how  completely,  in  Wilde,  the  artist 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION 

chose  life  as  well  as  letters  for  expressing  self. 
"  Life  itself  is  an  art,  and  has  its  modes  of  style  no 
less  than  the  arts  that  seek  to  express  it,"  wrote 
Wilde  in  his  marvellous  essay  on  Wainewright — 
marvellous  in  itself,  and  more  so  for  the  tragic 
thaumaturgy  by  which  Time  made  of  it  a  prophecy 
of  Wilde's  own  fate! — and  Charles  Whibley,  later, 
echoed  with  "  there  is  an  art  of  life,  as  there  are  arts 
of  colour,  form,  and  speech."  Yet,  if  we  incline  to 
consider  Wilde  as  the  artist  in  life,  if  we  recall 
his  career  as  aesthete,  as  triumphant  dandy,  as 
successful  playwright,  we  have  also  to  remember 
the  tragedy,  the  prison,  the  dismal,  horrid  crum- 
bling to  a  sordid  death.  Inextricably  mingled  are 
his  living  and  his  writing;  yet  to  consider  his 
prose,  his  plays,  his  poetry,  only  by  the  light  of 
his  prison  and  its  aftermath,  were  as  stupid  as  to 
imagine  that  one  may  ever  quite  read  any  page  of 
his  without  finding  there  some  echo  of  a  personality. 
No  man  whose  energy,  whose  delight  in  a  personal 
pose,  and  whose  paradoxic  infatuation  with  art 
could  make  such  an  impress  on  the  time  and  the 
land  he  lived  in  can  be  erased  by  any  act  of  his 
own,  or  by  our  volition,  from  the  world's  chronicle. 
If  his  triumphs  were  gorgeous ;  if  he  turned  the  fogs 
of  London  into  rose-gardens  for  his  fancy;  if  in 
vanity  and  impertinence  he  had  ruled  his  world  as 


INTRODUCTION  IX 

a  monarch,  dictating  in  taste  and  thought  and  lan- 
guage, he  was  to  taste,  later,  the  depths  of  despair, 
and  pain;  his  soul,  once  so  arrogant  in  its  scorn  of 
human  emotion,  was  to  suffer  sorrow,  and  shame 
and  contempt.  The  mood  of  the  triumphant  dandy 
we  have  in  his  earlier,  that  of  the  self-pitying  suf- 
ferer, in  his  later  writings.  In  life,  as  in  letters,  he 
was  always  the  man  of  his  mood,  the  artist  in  atti- 
tudes. One  must  take  him,  if  one  can,  at  the  par- 
ticular mood  that  best  pleases  one. 

While  it  is  my  mind  now  to  concern  myself  only 
with  that  mood  of  Wilde's  in  which  he  produced 
the  essays  in  Intentions,  it  was  scarce  possible  to 
come  to  this  without  touching,  however  lightly, 
upon  the  perplexing,  paradoxic  problem  of  the 
man's  life  and  its  bearing  on  his  art.  Just  as  all 
his  living  was  a  paradox,  so  the  relation  between 
that  living  and  his  writing  must  ever  remain  one. 
A  month  after  Wilde's  death,  when  Puritan  ears 
were  to  all  intents  closed  against  his  name,  I  pub- 
lished an  argument  seeking  to  disestablish  the  con- 
nection between  his  noble  artistic  achievement  and 
the  cloud  under  which  his  name  still  lay.  That 
was,  of  course,  special  pleading.  Now,  barely  five 
years  later,  Time  has  nobly  fulfilled  all  I  then  fore- 
cast. It  takes  no  courage  now,  as  then,  upon  the 
news  of  his  death,  to  admit  one's  appreciation  of 


X  INTRODUCTION 

Oscar  Wilde's  artistic  accomplishment.  In  con- 
tinental Europe  no  play  is  more  frequently  per- 
formed at  this  writing  than  Wilde's  Salome ;  his 
books  and  his  plays  are  everywhere  conspicuous. 
Colder  critical  perspective  of  Time  and  Comparison 
has  not  diminished  the  regard  for  his  writings. 
The  posthumous  publication  of  certain  prison  let- 
ters of  his  called  De  Profundis  tended,  but  the 
other  day,  to  darken  counsel  somewhat.  Here, 
again,  was  the  gaping  wound  laid  open,  the  tor- 
tured soul  writhing  to  find  itself  amid  its  countless 
attitudes.  Here  what  had  been  arrogance  was 
turned  to  pity,  and  to  a  pagan,  yet  piteous,  inter- 
pretation of  the  Christ;  yet  here,  still,  was  the  pose, 
the  attitude,  the  unquenchable  artist  in  attitudes. 

Nothing,  in  the  case  before  us,  can  be  thrown 
away.  It  is  as  futile  to  consider  the  life  alone  as 
the  letters  alone.  All  was  of  a  piece.  Yet  the 
happy  mean,  the  discriminating  way,  is,  having  in 
mind  the  art  his  life  assumed,  to  consider  as  dis- 
tinctly as  possible  the  art  he  put  on  paper.  His 
life  was  as  complete  a  work  of  art,  with  heights 
and  depths,  triumphs  and  tragedies,  as  was  ever 
composed.  There,  then,  is  one  Magnum  Opus. 
Some  will  like  it,  some  loathe  it;  some,  in  reading 
his  written  art,  will  like  to  forget  his  acted  art, 
some  will  recall  it  gladly :    you  see,  do  what  one 


INTRODUCTION  XI 

will,  one  proceeds  in  circles,  issuing  always  upon 
paradox. 

Paradox  and  moods,  it  is  always  these  in  the  case 
of  Wilde.  And  never  more  so  than  in  the  case  of 
his  essays.  His  fairy  tales,  his  poetry,  notably  The 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,  his  exquisite  plays — living 
still  not  only  in  themselves,  but  as  models  to  later 
playwrights — have  my  full  meed  of  appreciation, 
yet  it  is  in  his  essays  that  I  find  him  at  his  best. 
Here  the  wisdom  under  his  paradox  is  most  dis- 
coverable. Here,  forgetting  his  life,  one  may  most 
clearly  discern  his  most  characteristic  attitude 
toward  life.  Here,  in  Intentions,  are  the  most 
precious  utterances  of  this  amateur  in  art  and  life. 
Jewels  of  wit  and  paradox  are  in  these  pages 
scattered  so  profusely,  that  if  once  one  start  to  pick 
them  up,  one  may  not  stop,  save  for  sheer  weari- 
ness. Truly  one  may  declare,  as  William  Watson 
does  of  Lowell,  that  the  brilliance  "  is  so  great  and 
so  ubiquitous  that  it  pays  the  not  inconsiderable 
penalty  of  diverting  our  attention  from  the  real 
soundness  that  underlies  it  all.  So  dazzling  is 
the  flash,  and  at  times  so  sharp  the  report,  that  we 
scarcely  notice  the  straightness  of  the  aim." 

In  that  portion  of  the  bookish  world  about  us 
that  fashions  its  verdicts  upon  academic  formula  the 
existence  of  any  essayists  save  Lamb,  Montaigne, 


Xll  INTRODUCTION 

and  Stevenson  is  slurred.  Yet  of  essayists  who  have 
done  memorable  things,  critically,  in  our  own  time, 
there  are  at  least  three  :  Oscar  Wilde,  Bernard  Shaw, 
and  George  Moore.  All  have  said  trenchant  things 
memorably.  Often  impertinent,  yet  never  negli- 
gible. Intentions  is  magnificent  with  impertinences, 
but  also  with  truths.  As  a  book,  it  has  splendidly 
the  sincerity  of  Wilde's  insincerity.  It  constantly 
makes  ridiculous  the  petty  formulas  of  petty  dog- 
matists. Observe  Richard  Burton,  not  of  New 
Arabian  Nights,  but  of  New  England,  declaring  that 
"  in  the  essay  an  author  stands  self-revealed ;  he 
may  mask  behind  some  other  forms,  in  some  mea- 
sure ;  but  commonplaceness,  vulgarity,  thinness  of 
nature,  are  in  this  kind  instantly  uncovered.  The 
essay  is  for  this  reason  a  severe  test."  In  the  very 
first  essay  in  Intentions,  the  one  entitled  The  Decay 
of  Lying,  Wilde  sets  all  awry  that  assertion  about 
the  mask  and  what  it  hides ;  he  declares  that  what 
is  interesting  about  people  "  is  the  mask  that  each 
one  of  them  wears,  not  the  reality  that  lies  behind 
the  mask."  How,  before  the  nimbleness  of  this 
creature  of  masks  and  moods,  can  we  for  any  length 
of  time  observe  the  stolid  solemnity  of  the  dogma- 
tists and  the  dealers  in  the  sententious  ?  We  are  in 
a  land  of  masks  and  moods. 

Literature  is  the  advertisement  of  one's  attitude 


INTRODUCTION  Xlll 

toward  life.  It  is  the  record  of  a  mood.  It  is  the 
impress,  writ  in  wax,  of  some  mask  we  wore  at 
some  moment.  It  is  a  quantity  of  conflicting  things. 
It  is  revelation,  and  it  is  masquerade.  What- 
ever it  is,  literature  is  something  of  which  the 
essays  in  Intentions  must  ever  be  accounted 
types  :  irritating,  insincere,  paradoxic,  but — indubi- 
tably literature.  Epigram  jostles  contradiction ; 
truth  elbows  the  fantastic ;  paradox  plays  through 
every  interval ;  yet  these  essays  remain  arrestingly 
entertaining,  eminently  readable.  Upon  the  style 
of  Intentions  there  is  little  need  to  dwell ;  bril- 
liant, inconsequent,  mannered,  it  is  ever  the  essence 
of  the  man  himself.  This  style  was  the  man ;  you 
can,  if  you  will,  read  him  in  every  line  of  it.  Here 
are  all  the  triumphant  moods  of  his  triumphant, 
arrogant  years,  expressed  in  glittering  epigram  and 
luminous  diction ;  just  as  in  the  style  of  The 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol  you  may  mark  the  prison 
bars,  and  in  that  of  De  Profundis  you  may  hear 
the  cry  of  a  soul  desperately  attempting  to  achieve 
sincerity  through  a  chastened  body. 

Every  one  of  the  essays  in  Intentions  marks  a 
happy  pose.  The  reader  here  has  Oscar  Wilde  in  his 
gayest  moods.  There  are,  in  this  book,  four  essays, 
the  chief  of  them,  The  Critic  as  Artist,  being  in  two 
parts.     Every  page  of  them  is  readable.     You  may 


XIV  INTRODUCTION 

suffer  irritation,  your  dearest  beliefs  may  suffer ;  but 
you  will  read  on.  This  is  mannered  matter,  from  a 
mannered  man.  But  man  and  matter  hold  you  to 
the  end.  The  author's  panoply  of  paradox  guards 
him  against  the  commonplace.  Never  is  the  reader 
safe  in  assuming  that  the  brilliant  manner  has 
nothing  behind  it.  Let  me  instance  the  much-dis- 
cussed theory  about  art  imitating  life,  so  adroitly 
set  forth  in  the  first  of  these  essays,  entitled  The 
Decay  of  Lying.  Wilde's  whim,  you  will  find,  in- 
sisted upon  the  imitations  that  life  gave  of  artistic 
inventions ;  he  told  of  English  feminine  beauty 
actually  taking  on  the  lines  and  hues  first  created 
by  certain  painters ;  he  told  of  a  woman  who  acted 
exactly  upon  the  Becky  Sharp  model ;  he  gave  in- 
stance upon  instance.  Our  newspapers  and  our  ob- 
servation continually  confirm  the  theory,  at  first  so 
seemingly  far-fetched.  Sir  Walter  Besant,  in  his 
volume  called  The  Doubts  of  Dives  gave  a  trenchant 
instance  in  this  sort  of  imitation.  The  American 
journalist,  Julian  Ralph,  once  recounted  the  incident 
of  a  model  in  a  New  York  art  school  who  absolutely, 
yet  unconsciously,  rehearsed  the  action  of  Du 
Maurier's  heroine  in  suddenly  refusing  to  pose  for 
the  altogether.  Finally,  do  you  recall  the  incident 
of  Wilde's  appearing  before  the  curtain  of  a  theatre 
where  a  play  of  his  was  being  produced  for  the  first 
time,  and  astonishing  the  audience  with  a  cigarette 


INTRODUCTION  XV 

in  his  fingers,  a  green  carnation  in  his  lapel?  Mr. 
Robert  Hichens  afterwards  used  the  green  carnation 
as  the  name  of  a  satiric  novelette,  aimed  at  Wilde, 
and  in  the  spring  of  this  year  in  which  I  write,  1905, 
— nearly  a  score  of  years  later,  in  other  words, — a 
florist  of  Los  Angeles,  in  California,  succeeded  in 
producing  from  the  soil  a  green  carnation.  Who, 
after  that,  can  quite  laugh  out  of  countenance  such 
a  sentence  as  this,  from  The  Decay  of  Lying:  "  A 
great  artist  invents  a  type,  and  Life  tries  to  copy  it, 
to  reproduce  it  in  popular  form,  like  an  enterprising 
publisher  "  ? 

The  temptation  to  quote  is  hardly  countered  as 
one  reads  and  rereads  these  essays.  Even  before 
we  approach  Wilde's  lucid  and  yet  elusive  interpre- 
tation of  the  function  of  criticism,  as  expressed  in 
The  Critic  as  Artist,  we  find  in  the  earlier  essay,  The 
Decay  of  Lying,  much  that  bears  upon  this  matter. 
Indeed,  the  effort  of  these  pages,  throughout  Ln- 
tentions,  is  to  build  up  the  high  estimate  the  world 
should  give  to  criticism.  Always,  under  paradox 
and  contradiction,  is  the  plea  for  the  critic  whose 
art  is  also  creative.  In  The  Decay  of  Lying  Wilde 
declares  that  "  the  only  portraits  in  which  one 
believes  are  portraits  where  there  is  very  little  of 
the  sitter  and  a  great  deal  of  the  artist,"  and  one  has 
only  to  think  of  Whistler  and  Sargent  to  realise  the 
germ  of  truth  that  lies  here. 


XVI  INTRODUCTION 

It  is  in  The  Critic  as  Artist  that  we  have  Wilde 
at  his  best  as  brilliant  essayist,  keen,  critical  analyst. 
Excepting  certain  impudent  but  amusing  passages 
in  The  Co)ifessions  of  a  Young  Matt,  no  phrases  upon 
contemporaries  are  so  memorable  as  some  that  Wilde 
here  sets  down.  Mr.  Henry  James,  we  are  here  told, 
"  writes  fiction  as  if  it  were  a  painful  duty  " ;  Mr. 
Hall  Caine  writes  "  at  the  top  of  his  voice."  Of 
Meredith  he  declared  that  "his  style  ischaosillumined 
by  lightning As  an  artist  he  is  everything  ex- 
cept articulate."  Browning  he  termed  "  the  most 
supreme  writer  of  fiction,  it  may  be,  that  we  have 
ever  had.  .  .  .  The  only  man  that  can  touch  the  hem 
of  his  garment  is  George  Meredith.  Meredith  is  a 
prose  Browning,  and  so  is  Browning."  He  held  that 
"  from  the  point  of  view  of  literature  Mr.  Kipling  is 
a  genius  who  drops  his  aspirates."  For  realism  he 
had  no  phrase  harsh  enough ;  he  deplored  novels 
with  a  purpose,  despised  Zola,  admired  Balzac ;  and 
summed  up  his  theory  of  literature  by  declaring  that 
it  meant  "  distinction,  charm,  beauty,  and  imagina- 
tive power."  I  do  not  hesitate  in  saying  that  the 
function  of  criticism  in  its  relation  to  art  and  life  has 
never  been  better  expressed  than  in  this  essay  on 
The  Critic  as  Artist. 

"  Life  itself  is  an  art,"  he  had  written  elsewhere, 
yet  now,  in  this  essay  still  under  consideration,  he 


INTRODUCTION  XVU 

says  that  "  anybody  can  make  history.  Only  a 
great  man  can  write  it."  But  he  gives  you,  for  that, 
and  countless  contradictions  like  it,  plenty  of  epi- 
grammatic excuse.  Note  this,  and  think  of  his  later 
adventures  in  tragedy,  and  in  pity  :  "  The  man  who 
regards  his  past  is  a  man  who  deserves  to  have  no 
future  to  look  forward  to.  When  one  has  found  ex- 
pression for  a  mood,  one  has  done  with  it." 

Finally,  there  is  the  culminating  fascination  of  the 
essay  entitled  Pen,  Pencil,  and  Poison.  This  chap- 
ter on  Thomas  Griffiths  Wainewright  is  one  of  the 
subtlest,  uncanniest  bits  of  appreciative  writing  in  the 
history  of  letters.  In  every  line  of  it  one  may  read, 
recalling  Wilde's  subsequent  career,  the  phrases  of 
prophecy  and  unconscious  self-revelation.  It  is  as 
if  he  had,  years  before  the  event,  given  us  a  docu- 
ment that  might  serve  as  an  apology  or  explanation. 
There  is  no  argument  that  a  pleader  for  Wilde  could 
use  that  Wilde  had  not  himself  used  here  for  Waine- 
wright, who  was  an  artist,  poet,  dilettante,  forger,  and 
poisoner.  Now,  when  one  has  the  later  documents, 
the  Ballad  and  the  letters  from  prison,  such  pas- 
sages as  these,  from  Pen,  Pencil,  and  Poison,  ring 
doubly  poignant :  "  The  sentence  now  passed  on  him 
was,  to  a  man  of  his  culture,  a  form  of  death.  .  .  . 
The  permanence  of  personality  is  a  very  subtle  meta- 
physical   problem,    and   certainly  the  English   law 


XV1U  INTRODUCTION 

solves  the  question  in  an  extremely  rough-and- 
ready  manner His  crimes  seem  to  have  had 

an  important  effect  upon  his  art.  They  gave  a  strong 
personality  to  his  style.  One  can  fancy  an  intense 
personality  being  created  out  of  sin.  The  fact  of  a 
man  being  a  poisoner  is  nothing  against  his  prose. 
The  domestic  virtues  are  not  the  true  basis  of  art. 
There  is  no  essential  incongruity  between  crime  and 
culture."  There,  in  those  words  of  Wilde's,  written 
years  before  they  could  come  to  have  application 
in  his  own  case,  is  the  expression  of  the  vital  truth 
that  posterity  can  never  blink,  no  matter  how  biassed. 
Had  we  before  us  nothing  save  the  essay  on  Waine- 
wright,  there  would  be  evidence  enough  for  calling 
Wilde  a  brilliant  creative  critic.  This  is  biography, 
this  is  art.  What  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  did  for 
Villon,  briefly,  brilliantly,  Oscar  Wilde  has  here  done 
for  Wainewright. 

Space  forbids  that  I  dwell  upon  the  main  inter- 
pretation Wilde  gives  in  Intentions  of  the  theory 
of  critical  art.  I  must  point  you  to  those  fascinating 
pages  themselves,  conscious  that  each  line  of  mine 
has  but  delayed  your  coming  to  the  feast  itself.  It 
is  possible  that  this  new  edition  of  Intentions  for 
which  I  make  this  introduction  may  reach  some 
who  have  never  yet  read  Wilde  in  the  essay-form. 
To  them  my  envy  goes.     They  will  close  the  book, 


INTRODUCTION  XIX 

I  think,  upon  the  Wainewright  essay.  Unlike 
Wainewright,  Wilde  issued  from  prison  gay  with 
fine  intentions.  Brilliant  still  his  talks,  brilliant 
still  his  plans.  Plans  for  new  plays,  great  ones. 
All  remained  undone,  unwritten.  For  him  who 
had  said  one  must  never  return  to  the  past,  there 
remained  nothing  but  revocations  from  the  Past. 
Gradually  all  deserted  him :  friends,  his  own  wit, 
even  the  curiosity-seekers.  He  could  no  longer 
talk,  no  longer  write.  The  passing  of  the  Paris 
Exposition  found  him,  and  with  it  Death,  with 
all  his  sins  upon  him,  huddled,  so  to  speak,  with 
the  memories  of  a  splendid  career,  a  ghastly  dis- 
aster. No  death  in  all  history  seems  more  horrid 
than  this  one.  Beau  Brummell  in  Calais,  Verlaine 
in  Paris,  do  not  surpass  this  tragedy. 

The  sunflowers,  the  lilies,  the  carnations,  and  the 
velvet  are  gone,  yet  the  satire  and  the  caricature 
they  aroused  remain  part  of  our  artistic  treasure. 
The  tinsel  of  aestheticism  is  dust,  yet  we  are  even 
now  heirs  to  its  gain  in  knowledge  of  the  Japanese 
arts.  The  drawings  of  Du  Maurier  and  Beardsley, 
the  writings  of  Hichens,  the  words  of  Gilbert,  all 
testify  obliquely  to  the  power  of  the  man  whose 
hell,  more  literally  than  that  of  any  other  man,  was 
indeed  paved  with  Intentions. 

Percival  Pollard. 

New  York,  July,  1905. 


THE    DECAY   OF    LYING 

AN    OBSERVATION 


HA  DIALOGUE.  Persons: 
Cyril  and  Vivian.  Scene :  the 
library  of  a  country  house  in 
Nottinghamshire. 


THE    DECAY  OF  LYING 

Cyril  (coming  in  through  the  open  window  from  the 
terrace).  My  dear  Vivian,  don't  coop  yourself  up  all 
day  in  the  library.  It  is  a  perfectly  lovely  afternoon. 
The  air  is  exquisite.  There  is  a  mist  upon  the  woods 
like  the  purple  bloom  upon  a  plum.  Let  us  go  and  lie 
on  the  grass,  and  smoke  cigarettes,  and  enjoy  Nature. 

Vivian.  Enjoy  Nature !  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I 
have  entirely  lost  that  faculty.  People  tell  us  that 
Art  makes  us  love  Nature  more  than  we  loved  her 
before  ;  that  it  reveals  her  secrets  to  us  ;  and  that  after 
a  careful  study  of  Corot  and  Constable  we  see  things 
in  her  that  had  escaped  our  observation.  My  own 
experience  is  that  the  more  we  study  Art,  the  less  we 
care  for  Nature.  What  Art  really  reveals  to  us  is 
Nature's  lack  of  design,  her  curious  crudities,  her 
extraordinary  monotony,  her  absolutely  unfinished 
condition.  Nature  has  good  intentions,  of  course, 
but,  as  Aristotle  once  said,  she  cannot  carry  them 

3 


4  INTENTIONS 

out.  When  I  look  at  a  landscape  I  cannot  help 
seeing  all  its  defects.  It  is  fortunate  for  us,  how- 
ever, that  Nature  is  so  imperfect,  as  otherwise  we 
should  have  had  no  art  at  all.  Art  is  our  spirited 
protest,  our  gallant  attempt  to  teach  Nature  her 
proper  place.  As  for  the  infinite  variety  of  Nature, 
that  is  a  pure  myth.  It  is  not  to  be  found  in  Nature 
herself.  It  resides  in  the  imagination,  or  fancy,  or 
cultivated  blindness  of  the  man  who  looks  at  her. 

Cyril.  Well,  you  need  not  look  at  the  landscape. 
You  can  lie  on  the  grass  and  smoke  and  talk. 

Vivian.  But  Nature  is  so  uncomfortable.  Grass  is 
hard  and  lumpy  and  damp,  and  full  of  dreadful  black 
insects.  Why,  even  Morris'  poorest  workman  could 
make  you  a  more  comfortable  seat  than  the  whole  of 
Nature  can.  Nature  pales  before  the  furniture  of  "the 
street  which  from  Oxford  has  borrowed  its  name,"  as 
the  poet  you  love  so  much  once  vilely  phrased  it.  I 
don't  complain.  If  Nature  had  been  comfortable, 
mankind  would  never  have  invented  architecture,  and 
I  prefer  houses  to  the  open  air.  In  a  house  we  all  feel 
of  the  proper  proportions.  Everything  is  subordinated 
to  us,  fashioned  for  ouruse  and  our  pleasure.  Egotism 
itself,  which  is  so  necessary  to  a  proper  sense  of 
human  dignity,  is  entirely  the  result  of  indoor  life. 
Out  of  doors  one  becomes  abstract  and  impersonal. 
One's  individuality  absolutely  leaves  one.    And  then 


THE  DECAY  OF  LYING  5 

Nature  Is  so  indifferent,  so  unappreciative.  When- 
ever I  am  walking  in  the  park  here,  I  always  feel 
that  I  am  no  more  to  her  than  the  cattle  that 
browse  on  the  slope,  or  the  burdock  that  blooms  in 
the  ditch.  Nothing  is  more  evident  than  that  Nature 
hates  Mind.  Thinking  is  the  most  unhealthy  thing 
in  the  world,  and  people  die  of  it  just  as  they  die 
of  any  other  disease.  Fortunately,  in  England  at 
any  rate,  thought  is  not  catching.  Our  splendid 
physique  as  a  people  is  entirely  due  to  our  national 
stupidity.  I  only  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  keep 
this  great  historic  bulwark  of  our  happiness  for 
many  years  to  come ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  we 
are  beginning  to  be  over-educated ;  at  least  every- 
body who  is  incapable  of  learning  has  taken  to 
teaching  —  that  is  really  what  our  enthusiasm  for 
education  has  come  to.  In  the  meantime,  you  had 
better  go  back  to  your  wearisome,  uncomfortable 
Nature,  and  leave  me  to  correct  my  proofs. 

Cyril.  Writing  an  article !  That  is  not  very  con- 
sistent after  what  you  have  just  said. 

Vivian.  Who  wants  to  be  consistent  ?  The  dullard 
and  the  doctrinaire,  the  tedious  people  who  carry  out 
their  principles  to  the  bitter  end  of  action,  to  the 
rednctio  ad  absurdnm  of  practice.  Not  I.  Like 
Emerson,  I  write  over  the  door  of  my  library  the 
word  "  Whim."    Besides,  my  article  is  really  a  most 


6  INTENTIONS 

salutary  and  valuable  warning.  If  it  is  attended  to, 
there  may  be  a  new  Renaissance  of  Art. 

Cyril.  What  is  the  subject? 

Vivian.  I  intend  to  call  it  "  The  Decay  of  Lying : 
A  Protest." 

Cyril.  Lying!  I  should  have  thought  that  our 
politicians  kept  up  that  habit. 

Vivian.  I  assure  you  that  they  do  not.  They  never 
rise  beyond  the  level  of  misrepresentation, and  actually 
condescend  to  prove,  to  discuss,  to  argue.  How 
different  from  the  temper  of  the  true  liar,  with  his 
frank,  fearless  statements,  his  superb  responsibility, 
his  healthy,  natural  disdain  of  proof  of  any  kind! 
After  all,  what  is  a  fine  lie  ?  Simply  that  which  is  its 
own  evidence.  If  a  man  is  sufficiently  unimaginative 
to  produce  evidence  in  support  of  a  lie,  he  might  just 
as  well  speak  the  truth  at  once.  No,  the  politicians 
won't  do.  Something  may,  perhaps,  be  urged  on  be- 
half of  the  Bar.  The  mantle  of  the  Sophist  has  fallen 
on  its  members.  Their  feigned  ardours  and  unreal 
rhetoric  are  delightful.  They  can  make  the  worse 
appear  the  better  cause,  as  though  they  were  fresh 
from  Leontine  schools,  and  have  been  known  to  wrest 
from  reluctant  juries  triumphant  verdicts  of  acquittal 
for  their  clients,  even  when  those  clients,  as  often 
happens,  were  clearly  and  unmistakeably  innocent. 
But  they  are  briefed  by  the  prosaic,  and  are  not 
ashamed  to  appeal  to  precedent.     In  spite  of  their 


THE    DECAY    OF   LYING  7 

endeavours,  the  truth  will  out.  Newspapers,  even, 
have  degenerated.  They  may  now  be  absolutely 
relied  upon.  One  feels  it  as  one  wades  through  their 
columns.  It  is  always  the  unreadable  that  occurs. 
I  am  afraid  that  there  is  not  much  to  be  said  in 
favour  of  either  the  lawyer  or  the  journalist.  Besides 
what  I  am  pleading  for  is  Lying  in  art.  Shall  I 
read  you  what  I  have  written?  It  might  do  you  a 
great  deal  of  good. 

Cyril.  Certainly,  if  you  give  me  a  cigarette. 
Thanks.  By  the  way,  what  magazine  do  you  in- 
tend it  for? 

Vivian.  For  the  Retrospective  Review.  I  think  I 
told  you  that  the  elect  had  revived  it. 

Cyril.  Whom  do  you  mean  by  "  the  elect  "  ? 

Vivian.  Oh,  The  Tired  Hedonists  of  course.  It 
is  a  club  to  which  I  belong.  We  are  supposed  to 
wear  faded  roses  in  our  button-holes  when  we 
meet,  and  to  have  a  sort  of  cult  for  Domitian.  I 
am  afraid  you  are  not  eligible.  You  are  too  fond 
of  simple  pleasures. 

Cyril.  I  should  be  black-balled  on  the  ground  of 
animal  spirits,  I  suppose  ? 

Vivian.  Probably.  Besides,  you  are  little  too  old. 
We  don't  admit  anybody  who  is  of  the  usual  age. 

Cyril.  Well,  I  should  fancy  you  are  all  a  good 
deal  bored  with  each  other. 

Vivian.  We  are.     That  is  one  of  the  objects  of 


8  INTENTIONS 

the  club.  Now,  if  you  promise  not  to  interrupt  too 
often,  I  will  read  you  my  article. 

Cyril.  You  will  find  me  all  attention. 

Vivian  (reading  in  a  very  clear,  musical  voice). 
"The  Decay  of  Lying:  A  Protest. — One  of 
the  chief  causes  that  can  be  assigned  for  the 
curiously  commonplace  character  of  most  of  the 
literature  of  our  age  is  undoubtedly  the  decay  of 
Lying  as  an  art,  a  science,  and  a  social  pleasure. 
The  ancient  historians  gave  us  delightful  fiction  in 
the  form  of  fact;  the  modern  novelist  presents  us 
with  dull  facts  under  the  guise  of  fiction.  The 
Blue-Book  is  rapidly  becoming  his  ideal  both  for 
method  and  manner.  He  has  his  tedious  '  document 
kumain,'  his  miserable  little  'coin  de  la  creation,'  into 
which  he  peers  with  his  microscope.  He  is  to  be 
found  at  the  Librairie  Nationale,  or  at  the  British 
Museum,  shamelessly  reading  up  his  subject.  He 
has  not  even  the  courage  of  other  people's  ideas, 
but  insists  on  going  directly  to  life  for  everything, 
and  ultimately,  between  encyclopaedias  and  personal 
experience,  he  comes  to  the  ground,  having 
drawn  his  types  from  the  family  circle  or  from  the 
weekly  washerwoman,  and  having  acquired  an 
amount  of  useful  information  from  which  never, 
even  in  his  most  meditative  moments,  can  he 
thoroughly  free  himself. 


THE   DECAY    OF    LYING  9 

"  The  loss  that  results  to  literature  in  general 
from  this  false  ideal  of  our  time  can  hardly  be 
overestimated.  People  have  a  careless  way  of 
talking  about  a  '  born  liar/  just  as  they  talk  about 
a  'born  poet.'  But  in  both  cases  they  are  wrong. 
Lying  and  poetry  are  arts — arts,  as  Plato  saw,  not 
unconnected  with  each  other — and  they  require  the 
most  careful  study,  the  most  disinterested  devotion. 
Indeed,  they  have  their  technique,  just  as  the  more 
material  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture  have,  their 
subtle  secrets  of  form  and  colour,  their  craft-mys- 
teries, their  deliberate  artistic  methods.  As  one 
knows  the  poet  by  his  fine  music,  so  one  can  recog- 
nize the  liar  by  his  rich  rhythmic  utterance,  and  in 
neither  case  will  the  casual  inspiration  of  the 
moment  suffice.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  practice  must 
precede  perfection.  But  in  modern  days  while  the 
fashion  of  writing  poetry  has  become  far  too  com- 
mon, and  should,  if  possible,  be  discouraged,  the 
fashion  of  lying  has  almost  fallen  into  disrepute. 
Many  a  young  man  starts  in  life  with  a  natural 
gift  for  exaggeration  which,  if  nurtured  in  congenial 
and  sympathetic  surroundings,  or  by  the  imitation 
of  the  best  models,  might  grow  into  something 
really  great  and  wonderful.  But,  as  a  rule,  he 
comes  to  nothing.  He  either  falls  into  careless 
habits  of  accuracy " 


IO  INTENTIONS 

Cyril.  My  dear  fellow ! 

Vivian.  Please  don't  interrupt  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence.  "  He  either  falls  into  careless  habits  of 
accuracy,  or  takes  to  frequenting  the  society  of  the 
aged  and  the  well-informed.  Both  things  are 
equally  fatal  to  his  imagination,  as  indeed  they 
would  be  fatal  to  the  imagination  of  anybody,  and 
in  a  short  time  he  develops  a  morbid  and  unhealthy 
faculty  of  truth-telling,  begins  to  verify  all  state- 
ments made  in  his  presence,  has  no  hesitation  in 
contradicting  people  who  are  much  younger  than 
himself,  and  often  ends  by  writing  novels  which  are 
so  like  life  that  no  one  can  possibly  believe  in  their 
probability.  This  is  no  isolated  instance  that  we 
are  giving.  It  is  simply  one  example  out  of  many  ; 
and  if  something  cannot  be  done  to  check,  or  at 
least  to  modify,  our  monstrous  worship  of  facts,  Art 
will  become  sterile  and  Beauty  will  pass  away  from 
the  land. 

"  Even  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  that  de- 
lightful master  of  delicate  and  fanciful  prose,  is 
tainted  with  this  modern  vice,  for  we  know  posi- 
tively no  other  name  for  it.  There  is  such  a 
thing  as  robbing  a  story  of  its  reality  by  trying  to 
make  it  too  true,  and  The  Black  Ari'ow  is  so  inar- 
tistic as  not  to  contain  a  single  anachronism  to 
boast   of,    while  the   transformation    of  Dr.  Jekyll 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  I  I 

reads  dangerously  like  an  experiment  out  of 
the  Lancet.  As  for  Mr.  Rider  Haggard,  who 
really  has,  or  had  once,  the  makings  of  a  per- 
fectly magnificent  liar,  he  is  now  so  afraid  of  being 
suspected  of  genius  that  when  he  does  tell  us  anything 
marvellous,  he  feels  bound  to  invent  a  personal  re- 
miniscence, and  to  put  it  into  a  footnote  as  a  kind  of 
cowardly  corroboration.  Nor  are  our  other  novelists 
much  better.  Mr.  Henry  James  writes  fiction  as  if  it 
were  a  painful  duty,  and  wastes  upon  mean  motives 
and  imperceptible  'points  of  view'  his  neat  literary 
style,  his  felicitous  phrases,  his  swift  and  caustic 
satire.  Mr.  Hall  Caine,  it  is  true,  aims  at  the 
grandiose,  but  then  he  writes  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
He  is  so  loud  that  one  cannot  hear  what  he  says. 
Mr.  James  Payn  is  an  adept  in  the  art  of  concealing 
what  is  not  worth  finding.  He  hunts  down  theobvious 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  short-sighted  detective. 
As  one  turns  over  the  pages,  the  suspense  of  the 
author  becomes  almost  unbearable.  The  horses  of 
Mr.  William  Black's  phaeton  do  not  soar  towards  the 
sun.  They  merely  frighten  the  sky  at  evening  into 
violent  chromolithographic  effects.  On  seeing  them 
approach,  the  peasants  take  refuge  in  dialect.  Mrs. 
Oliphant  prattles  pleasantly  about  curates,  lawn- 
tennis  parties,  domesticity,  and  other  wearisome 
things.        Mr.     Marion    Crawford    has    immolated 


12  INTENTIONS 

himself  upon  the  altar  of  local  colour.  He 
is  like  the  lady  in  the  French  comedy  who  keeps 
talking  about  Me  beau  ciel  d'ltalie.'  Besides,  he 
has  fallen  into  a  bad  habit  of  uttering  moral 
platitudes.  He  is  always  telling  us  that  to  be  good 
is  to  be  good,  and  that  to  be  bad  is  to  be  wicked. 
At  times  he  is  almost  edifying.  Robert  Elsmere 
is  of  course  a  masterpiece — a  masterpiece  of  the 
'  genre  ennuyeux,'  the  one  form  of  literature  that 
the  English  people  seem  to  thoroughly  enjoy.  A 
thoughtful  young  friend  of  ours  once  told  us  that 
it  reminded  him  of  the  sort  of  conversation  that  goes 
on  at  a  meat  tea  in  the  house  of  a  serious  Noncom- 
formist  family,  and  we  can  quite  believe  it.  Indeed 
it  is  only  in  England  that  such  a  book  could  be 
produced.  England  is  the  home  of  lost  ideas.  As 
for  that  great  and  daily  increasing  school  of  novelists 
for  whom  the  sun  always  rises  in  the  East-End,  the 
only  thing  that  can  be  said  about  them  is  that  they 
find  life  crude,  and  leave  it  raw. 

"  In  France,  though  nothing  so  deliberately 
tedious  as  Robert  Elsmere  has  been  produced,  things 
are  not  much  better.  M.  Guy  de  Maupassant, 
with  his  keen  mordant  irony  and  his  hard  vivid 
style,  strips  life  of  the  few  poor  rags  that  still 
cover  her,  and  shows  us  foul  sore  and  festering 
wound.       He  writes  lurid  little  tragedies   in  which 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  1 3 

everybody  is  ridiculous  ;  bitter  comedies  at  which  one 
cannot  laugh  for  very  tears.  M.  Zola,  true  to  the 
lofty  principle  that  he  lays  down  in  one  of  his 
pronunciamientos  on  literature,  '  L'homme  de  genie 
n'a  jamais  d'esprit,'  is  determined  to  show  that, 
if  he  has  not  got  genius,  he  can  at  least  be  dull. 
And  how  well  he  succeeds!  He  is  not  without 
power.  Indeed  at  times,  as  in  Germinal,  there  is 
something  almost  epic  in  his  work.  But  his  work  is 
entirely  wrong  from  beginning  to  end,  and  wrong  not 
on  the  ground  of  morals,  but  on  the  ground  of  art. 
From  any  ethicalstandpointit  is  just  what  itshouldbe. 
The  author  is  perfectly  truthful,  and  describes  things 
exactly  as  they  happen.  What  more  can  any  moral- 
ist desire  ?  We  have  no  sympathy  at  all  with  the 
moral  indignation  of  our  time  against  M.  Zola.  It  is 
simply  the  indignation  of  Tartuffe  on  being  exposed. 
But  from  the  standpoint  of  art,  what  can  be  said  in 
favour  of  the  author  of  U Assommoir,  Nana,  and 
Pot-Bonille  ?  Nothing.  Mr.  Ruskin  once  described 
the  characters  in  George  Eliot's  novels  as  being  like 
the  sweepings  of  aPentonville  omnibus,  but  M.  Zola's 
characters  are  much  worse.  They  have  their  dreary 
vices,  and  their  drearier  virtues.  The  record  of  their 
lives  is  absolutely  without  interest.  Who  cares  what 
happens  to  them  ?  In  literature  we  require  distinc- 
tion, charm,  beauty,  and  imaginative   power.     We 


14  INTENTIONS 

don't  want  to  be  harrowed  and  disgusted  with  an 
account  of  the  doings  of  the  lower  orders.  M.  Daudet 
is  better.  He  has  wit,  a  light  touch,  and  an  amus- 
ing style.  But  he  has  lately  committed  literary 
suicide.  Nobody  can  possibly  care  for  Delobelle 
with  his  'II  faut  lutter  pour  l'art,'  or  for  Valmajour 
with  his  eternal  refrain  about  the  nightingale,  or  for 
the  poet  in  Jack  with  his  'mots  cruels,'  now  that  we 
have  learned  from  Vingt  Ans  de  ma  Vie  litteraire 
that  these  characters  were  taken  directly  from  life. 
To  us  they  seem  to  have  suddenly  lost  all  their 
vitality,  all  the  few  qualities  they  ever  possessed. 
The  only  real  people  are  the  people  who  never 
existed,  and  if  a  novelist  is  base  enough  to  go  to  life 
for  his  personages  he  should  at  least  pretend  that  they 
are  creations,  and  not  boast  of  them  as  copies.  The 
justification  of  a  character  in  a  novel  is  not  that 
other  persons  are  what  they  are,  but  that  the  author 
is  what  he  is.  Otherwise  the  novel  is  not  a  work  of 
art.  As  for  M.  Paul  Bourget,  the  master  of  the  'roman 
psychologique,' he  commits  the  error  of  imaginingthat 
the  men  and  women  of  modern  life  are  capable  of 
being  infinitely  analysed  for  an  innumerable  series  of 
chapters.  In  point  of  fact  what  is  interesting  about 
people  in  good  society — and  M.  Bourget  rarely  moves 
out  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  except  to  come 
to  London, — is   the  mask    that   each  one  of   them 


THE    DECAY    OF   LYING  15 

wears,  not  the  reality  that  lies  behind  the  mask. 
It  is  a  humiliating  confession,but  we  are  all  of  us  made 
out  of  the  same  stuff.  In  FalstafT  there  is  something 
of  Hamlet,  in  Hamlet  there  is  not  a  little  of  FalstafT. 
The  fat  knight  has  his  moods  of  melancholy,  and  the 
young  prince  his  moments  of  coarse  humour.  Where 
we  differ  from  each  other  is  purely  in  accidentals  :  in 
dress,  manner,  tone  of  voice,  religious  opinions,  per- 
sonal appearance,  tricks  of  habit,  and  the  like.  The 
more  one  analyses  people,  the  more  all  reasons  for 
analysis  disappear.  Sooner  or  later  one  comes  to  that 
dreadful  universal  thing  called  human  nature.  In- 
deed, as  any  one  who  has  ever  worked  among  the 
poor  knows  only  too  well,  the  brotherhood  of  man 
is  no  mere  poet's  dream,  it  is  a  most  depressing  and 
humiliating  reality ;  and  if  a  writer  insists  upon 
analysing  the  upper  classes,  he  might  just  as  well 
write  of  match-girls  and  costermongers  at  once." 
However,  my  dear  Cyril,  I  will  not  detain  you  any 
further  just  here.  I  quite  admit  that  modern  novels 
have  many  good  points.  All  I  insist  on  is  that,  as 
a  class,  they  are  quite  unreadable. 

Cyril.  That  is  certainly  a  very  grave  qualification, 
but  I  must  say  that  I  think  you  are  rather  unfair  in 
some  of  your  strictures.  I  like  The  Deemster,  and  The 
Daughter  of  Heth,  and  Le  Disciple,  and  Mr.  Isaacs, 
and  as  for  Robert  Elsmere  I  am  quite  devoted  to  it. 


1 6  INTENTIONS 

Not  that  I  can  look  upon  it  as  a  serious  work.  As  a 
statement  of  the  problems  that  confront  the  earnest 
Christian  it  is  ridiculous  and  antiquated.  It  is  simply 
Arnold's  Literature  and  Dogma  with  the  literature 
left  out.  It  is  as  much  behind  the  age  as  Paley's 
Evidences,  or  Colenso's  method  of  Biblical  exegesis. 
Nor  could  anything  be  less  impressive  than  the  un- 
fortunate hero  gravely  heralding  a  dawn  that  rose 
long  ago,  and  so  completely  missing  its  true  signifi- 
cance that  he  proposes  to  carry  on  the  business  of 
the  old  firm  under  the  new  name.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  contains  several  clever  caricatures,  and  a 
heap  of  delightful  quotations,  and  Green's  philoso- 
phy very  pleasantly  sugars  the  somewhat  bitter  pill 
of  the  author's  fiction.  I  also  cannot  help  expressing 
my  surprise  that  you  have  said  nothing  about  the 
two  novelists  whom  you  are  always  reading,  Balzac 
and  George  Meredith.  Surely  they  are  realists,  both 
of  them? 

Vivian.  Ah  !  Meredith  !  Who  can  define  him  ? 
His  style  is  chaos  illumined  by  flashes  of  lightning.  As 
awriterhehas  mastered  everythingexcept  language  : 
as  a  novelist  he  can  do  everything,  except  tell  a 
story  :  as  an  artist  he  is  everything,  except  articulate. 
Somebody  in  Shakespeare — Touchstone,  I  think — 
talks  about  a  man  who  is  always  breaking  his  shins 
over  his  own  wit,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  this  might 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  1 7 

serve  as  the  basis  for  a  criticism  of  Meredith's 
method.  But  whatever  he  is,  he  is  not  a  realist.  Or 
rather  I  would  say  that  he  is  a  child  of  realism  who 
is  not  on  speaking  terms  with  his  father.  By  delib- 
erate choice  he  has  made  himself  a  romanticist.  He 
has  refused  to  bow  the  knee  to  Baal,  and  after  all, 
even  if  the  man's  fine  spirit  did  not  revolt  against  the 
noisy  assertions  of  realism,  his  style  would  be  quite 
sufficient  of  itself  to  keep  life  at  a  respectful  distance. 
By  its  means  he  has  planted  round  his  garden  a 
hedge  full  of  thorns,  and  red  with  wonderful  roses. 
As  for  Balzac,  he  was  a  most  wonderful  combination 
of  the  artistic  temperament  with  the  scientific  spirit. 
The  latter  he  bequeathed  to  his  disciples  :  the  former 
was  entirely  his  own.  The  difference  between  such  a 
book  as  M.  Zola's  L'Assommoir  and  Balzac's  Illu- 
sions Perdues  *s  the  difference  between  unimagina- 
tive realism  and  imaginative  reality.  "All  Balzac's 
characters,"  said  Baudelaire,  "  are  gifted  with  the 
same  ardour  of  life  that  animated  himself.  All  his 
fictions  are  as  deeply  coloured  as  dreams.  Each 
mind  is  a  weapon  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  will. 
The  very  scullions  have  genius."  A  steady  course 
of  Balzac  reduces  our  living  friends  to  shadows,  and 
our  acquaintances  to  the  shadows  of  shades.  His 
characters  have  a  kind  of  fervent  fiery-coloured  exist- 
ence.    They  dominate  us,  and  defy  scepticism.  One 


1 8  INTENTIONS 

of  the  greatest  tragedies  of  my  life  is  the  death  of 
Lucien  de  Rubempre.  It  is  a  grief  from  which  I 
have  never  been  able  to  completely  rid  myself.  It 
haunts  me  in  my  moments  of  pleasure.  I  remember 
it  when  I  laugh.  But  Balzac  is  no  more  a  realist  than 
Holbein  was.  He  created  life,  he  did  not  copy  it. 
I  admit,  however,  that  he  set  far  too  high  a  value  on 
modernity  of  form  and  that,  consequently,  there  is 
no  book  of  his  that,  as  an  artistic  masterpiece,  can 
rank  with  Salammbo  or  Esmond,  or  The  Cloister  and 
the  Hearth,  or  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne. 

Cyril.  Do  you  object  to  modernity  of  form, 
then? 

Vivian.  Yes.  It  is  a  huge  price  to  pay  for  a  very 
poor  result.  Pure  modernity  of  form  is  always  some- 
what vulgarising.  It  cannot  help  being  so.  The  pub- 
lic imagine  that,  because  they  are  interested  in  their 
immediate  surroundings,  Art  should  be  interested  in 
them  also,  and  should  take  them  as  her  subject- 
matter.  But  the  mere  fact  that  they  are  interested 
in  these  things  makes  them  unsuitable  subjects  for 
Art.  The  only  beautiful  things,  as  somebody  once 
said,  are  the  things  that  do  not  concern  us.  As  long 
as  a  thing  is  useful  or  necessary  to  us,  or  affects  us  in 
any  way,  either  for  pain  or  for  pleasure,  or  appeals 
strongly  to  our  sympathies,  or  is  a  vital  part  of  the 
environment  in  which  we  live,  it  is  outside  the  proper 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  19 

sphere  of  art.  To  art's  subject-matter  we  should  be 
more  or  less  indifferent.  We  should,  at  any  rate, 
have  no  preferences,  no  prejudices,  no  partisan  feel- 
ing of  any  kind.  It  is  exactly  because  Hecuba  is 
nothing  to  us  that  her  sorrows  are  such  an  admirable 
motive  for  a  tragedy.  I  do  not  know  anything  in  the 
whole  history  of  literature  sadder  than  the  artistic 
career  of  Charles  Reade.  He  wrote  one  beautiful 
book,  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  a  book  as  much 
above  Romola  as  Romola  is  above  Daniel  Deronda, 
and  wasted  the  rest  of  his  life  in  a  foolish  attempt  to 
be  modern, to  draw  public  attention  to  the  stateof  our 
convict  prisons,  and  the  management  of  our  private 
lunatic  asylums.  Charles  Dickens  was  depressing 
enough  in  all  conscience  when  he  tried  to  arouse  our 
sympathy  for  the  victims  of  the  poor-law  administra- 
tion; but  Charles  Reade,  an  artist,  a  scholar,  a  man 
with  a  true  sense  of  beauty,  raging  and  roaring  over 
the  abuses  of  contemporary  life  like  a  common  pam- 
phleteer or  a  sensational  journalist,  is  really  a  sight  for 
the  angels  to  weep  over.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Cyril, 
modernity  of  form  and  modernity  of  subject-matter 
are  entirely  and  absolutely  wrong.  We  have  mis- 
taken the  common  livery  of  the  age  for  the  vesture  of 
the  Muses,  and  spend  our  days  in  the  sordid  streets 
and  hideous  suburbs  of  our  vile  cities  when  we  should 
be  out  on  the  hillside  with  Apollo.     Certainly  we  are 


20  INTENTIONS 

a  degraded  race,  and  have  sold  our  birthright  for  a 
mess  of  facts. 

Cyril.  There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  whatever  amusement  we  may 
find  in  reading  a  purely  modern  novel,  we  have  rarely 
any  artistic  pleasure  in  re-reading  it.  And  this  is 
perhaps  the  best  rough  test  of  what  is  literature  and 
what  is  not.  If  one  cannot  enjoy  reading  a  book 
over  and  over  again,  there  is  no  use  reading  it  at  all. 
But  what  do  you  say  about  the  return  to  Life  and 
Nature?  This  is  the  panacea  that  is  always  being 
recommended  to  us. 

Vivian.  I  will  read  you  what  I  say  on  that  sub- 
ject. The  passage  comes  later  on  in  the  article,  but 
I  may  as  well  give  it  to  you  now :  — 

"  The  popular  cry  of  our  time  is  '  Let  us  return  to 
Life  and  Nature ;  they  will  recreate  Art  for  us,  and 
send  the  red  blood  coursing  through  her  veins ;  they 
will  shoe  her  feet  with  swiftness  and  make  her  hand 
strong.'  But,  alas!  we  are  mistaken  in  our  amiable 
and  well-meaning  efforts.  Nature  is  always  behind 
the  age.  And  as  for  Life,  she  is  the  solvent  that 
breaks  up  Art,  the  enemy  that  lays  waste  her 
house." 

Cyril.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  Nature 
is  always  behind  the  age? 

Vivian.  Well,  perhaps  that  is  rather  cryptic.  What 


THE    DECAY    OF   LYING  2  I 

I  mean  is  this.  If  we  take  Nature  to  mean  natural 
simple  instinct  as  opposed  to  self-conscious  culture, 
the  work  produced  under  this  influence  is  always  old- 
fashioned,  antiquated,  and  out  of  date.  One  touch  of 
Nature  may  make  the  whole  world  kin,  but  two 
touches  of  Nature  will  destroy  any  work  of  Art.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  regard  Nature  as  the  collection 
of  phenomena  external  to  man,  people  only  discover 
in  her  what  they  bring  to  her.  She  has  no  suggestions 
of  her  own.  Wordsworth  went  to  the  lakes,  but  he 
was  never  a  lake  poet.  He  found  in  stones  the 
sermons  he  had  already  hidden  there.  He  went 
moralizing  about  the  district,  but  his  good  work  was 
produced  when  he  returned,  not  to  Nature  but  to 
poetry.  Poetry  gave  him  Laodaviia,  and  the  fine 
sonnets,  and  the  great  Ode,  such  as  it  is.  Nature 
gave  him  Martha  Ray  and  Peter  Bell,  and  the  ad- 
dress to  Mr.  Wilkinson's  spade, 
v  2.oo5i   i. 

Cyril.  I  think  that  view  might  be  questioned.     I 

am  rather  inclined  to  believe  in  the."  impulse  from  a 
5  n      I  -4  i    \      i        9     a     i  .  .j  SO&A  3 

vernal  wood,"  though  of  course  the  artistic  value  of 

such  an  impulse  depends  entirely  on  the  kind  of 
temperament  that  receives  it,  so  that  the  return  to 
Nature  would  come  to  mean  simply  the  advance  to 
a  great  personality.  You  would  agree  with  that,  I 
fancy.      However,  proceed  with  your  article. 

J  Tvian  (reading).  "Art  begins  with  abstract  deco- 


22  INTENTIONS 

ration  with  purely  imaginative  and  pleasurable  work 
dealing  with  what  is  unreal  and  non-existent.  This  is 
the  first  stage.  Then  Life  becomes  fascinated  with 
this  new  wonder,  and  asks  to  be  admitted  into  the 
charmed  circle.  Art  takes  life  as  part  of  her  rough 
material,  recreates  it,  and  refashions  it  in  fresh  forms, 
is  absolutely  indifferent  to  fact,  invents,  imagines, 
dreams,  and  keeps  between  herself  and  reality  the 
impenetrable  barrier  of  beautiful  style,  of  decorative 
or  ideal  treatment.  The  third  stage  is  when  Life  gets 
the  upper  hand,  and  drives  Art  out  into  the  wilder- 
ness. This  is  the  true  decadence,  and  it  is  from  this 
that  we  are  now  suffering. 

"  Take  the  case  of  the  English  drama.  At  first  in 
the  hands  of  the  monks  Dramatic  Art  was  abstract, 
decorative,  and  mythological.  Then  she  enlisted  Life 
in  her  service,  and  using  some  of  life's  external  forms, 
she  created  an  entirely  new  race  of  beings,  whose 
sorrows  were  more  terrible  than  any  sorrow  man  has 
ever  felt,  whose  joys  were  keener  than  lover's  joys, 
who  had  the  rage  of  the  Titans  and  the  calm  of 
the  gods,  who  had  monstrous  and  marvellous 
sins,  monstrous  and  marvellous  virtues.  To  them 
she  gave  a  language  different  from  that  of  actual 
use,  a  language  full  of  resonant  music  and  sweet 
rhythm,  made  stately  by  solemn  cadence,  or  made 
delicate  by  fanciful  rhyme,  jewelled  with  wonderful 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  23 

words,  and  enriched  with  lofty  diction.  She  clothed 
her  children  in  strange  raiment  and  gave  them  masks, 
and  at  her  bidding  the  antique  world  rose  from  its 
marble  tomb.  A  new  Caesar  stalked  through  the 
streets  of  risen  Rome,  and  with  purple  sail  and  flute- 
led  oars  another  Cleopatra  passed  up  the  river  to 
Antioch.  Old  myth  and  legend  and  dream  took  shape 
and  substance.  History  was  entirely  rewritten,  and 
there  was  hardly  one  of  the  dramatists  who  did  not 
recognize  that  the  object  of  Art  is  not  simple  truth 
but  complex  beauty.  In  this  they  were  perfectly 
right.  Art  itself  is  really  a  form  of  exaggeration; 
and  selection,  which  is  the  very  spirit  of  art,  is  noth- 
ing more  than  an  intensified  mode  of  over-emphasis. 
"  But  Life  soon  shattered  the  perfection  of  the 
form.  Even  in  Shakespeare  we  can  see  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end.  It  shows  itself  by  the  gradual  break- 
ing up  of  the  blank-verse  in  the  later  plays,  by  the 
predominance  given  to  prose,  and  by  the  over-im- 
portance assigned  to  characterisation.  The  passages 
in  Shakespeare — and  they  are  many — where  the 
language  is  uncouth,  vulgar,  exaggerated,  fantastic, 
obscene  even,  are  entirely  due  to  Life  calling  for  an 
echo  of  her  own  voice,  and  rejecting  the  intervention 
of  beautiful  style,  through  which  alone  should  Life 
be  suffered  to  find  expression.  Shakespeare  is  not 
by  any  means  a  flawless  artist.     He  is  too  fond  of  go- 


24  INTENTIONS 

ing  directly  to  life,  and  borrowing  life's  natural 
utterance.  He  forgets  that  when  Art  surrenders 
her  imaginative  medium  she  surrenders  everything. 
Goethe  says,  somewhere — 

In  der  Beschrankung  zeigt  sich  erst  der  Meister, 

'  It  is  in  working  within  limits  that  the  master  re- 
veals himself,'  and  the  limitation,  the  very  condition 
of  any  art  is  style.  However,  we  need  not  linger 
any  longer  over  Shakespeare's  realism.  The  Tem- 
pest is  the  most  perfect  of  palinodes.  All  that  we 
desired  to  point  out  was,  that  the  magnificent  work 
of  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  artists  contained 
within  itself  the  seeds  of  its  own  dissolution,  and 
that,  if  it  drew  some  of  its  strength  from  using  life 
as  rough  material,  it  drew  all  its  weakness  from  using 
life  as  an  artistic  method.  As  the  inevitable  result  of 
this  substitution  of  an  imitative  for  a  creative  me- 
dium, this  surrender  of  an  imaginative  form,  we  have 
the  modern  English  melodrama.  The  characters  in 
these  plays  talk  on  the  stage  exactly  as  they  would 
talk  off  it ;  they  have  neither  aspirations  nor  aspi- 
rates ;  they  are  taken  directly  from  life  and  reproduce 
its  vulgarity  down  to  the  smallest  detail ;  they  pre- 
sent the  gait,  manner,  costume,  and  accent  of  real 
people ;  they  would  pass  unnoticed  in  a  third-class 
railway  carriage.     And  yet  how  wearisome  the  plays 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  25 

are  !  They  do  not  succeed  in  producing  even  that 
impression  of  reality  at  which  they  aim,  and  which 
is  their  only  reason  for  existing.  As  a  method,  real- 
ism is  a  complete  failure. 

"  What  is  true  about  the  drama  and  the  novel  is  no 
less  true  about  those  arts  that  we  call  the  decorative 
arts.  The  whole  history  of  these  arts  in  Europe  is 
the  record  of  the  struggle  between  Orientalism, 
with  its  frank  rejection  of  imitation,  its  love  of  artis- 
tic convention,  its  dislike  to  the  actual  representa- 
tion of  any  object  in  Nature,  and  our  own  imitative 
spirit.  Wherever  the  former  has  been  paramount, 
as  in  Byzantium,  Sicily,  and  Spain,  by  actual  con- 
tact, or  in  the  rest  of  Europe  by  the  influence  of 
the  Crusades,  we  have  had  beautiful  and  imagina- 
tive work  in  which  the  visible  things  of  life  are 
transmuted  into  artistic  conventions,  and  the  things 
that  Life  has  not  are  invented  and  fashioned  for  her 
delight.  But  wherever  we  have  returned  to  Life 
and  Nature,  our  work  has  always  become  vulgar, 
common,  and  uninteresting.  Modern  tapestry,  with 
its  aerial  effects,  its  elaborate  perspective,  its  broad 
expanses  of  waste  sky,  its  faithful  and  laborious 
realism,  has  no  beauty  whatsoever.  The  pictorial 
glass  of  Germany  is  absolutely  detestable.  We  are 
beginning  to  weave  possible  carpets  in  England, 
but  only  because  we  have  returned  to  the  method 


26  INTENTIONS 

and  spirit  of  the  East.  Our  rugs  and  carpets  of 
twenty  years  ago,  with  their  solemn  depressing 
truths,  their  inane  worship  of  Nature,  their  sordid 
reproductions  of  visible  objects,  have  become,  even 
to  the  Philistine,  a  source  of  laughter.  A  cultured 
Mahomedan  once  remarked  to  us,  '  You  Christians 
are  so  occupied  in  misinterpreting  the  fourth  com- 
mandment that  you  have  never  thought  of  making 
an  artistic  application  of  the  second.'  He  was  per- 
fectly right,  and  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter  is 
this :  The  proper  school  to  learn  art  in  is  not  Life 
but  Art." 

And  now  let  me  read  you  a  passage  which  seems 
to  me  to  settle  the  question  very  completely. 

"  It  was  not  always  thus.  We  need  not  say  any- 
thing about  the  poets,  for  they,  with  the  unfortu- 
nate exception  of  Mr.  Wordsworth,  have  been  really 
faithful  to  their  high  mission,  and  are  universally 
recognized  as  being  absolutely  unreliable.  But  in 
the  works  of  Herodotus,  who,  in  spite  of  the  shal- 
low and  ungenerous  attempts  of  modern  sciolists  to 
verify  his  history,  may  justly  be  called  the  '  Father 
of  Lies  ' ;  in  the  published  speeches  of  Cicero  and 
the  biographies  of  Suetonius  ;  in  Tacitus  at  his  best ; 
in  Pliny's  Natural  History;  in  Hanno's  Periplus; 
in  all  the  early  chronicles ;  in  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints ;  in  Froissart  and  Sir  Thomas  Mallory ;    in 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  27 

the  travels  of  Marco  Polo ;  in  Olaus  Magnus,  and 
Aldrovandus,  and  Conrad  Lycosthenes,  with  his 
magnificent  Prodigiomm  et  Ostentorum  Chronicon; 
in  the  autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini;  in  the 
memoirs  of  Casanuova;  in  Defoe's  History  of  the 
Plague;  in  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson;  in  Napoleon's 
despatches,  and  in  the  works  of  our  own  Carlyle, 
whose  French  Revolution  is  one  of  the  most  fasci- 
nating historical  novels  ever  written,  facts  are  either 
kept  in  their  proper  subordinate  position,  or  else  en- 
tirely excluded  on  the  general  ground  of  dulness. 
Now,  everything  is  changed.  Facts  are  not  merely 
finding  a  footing-place  in  history,  but  they  are 
usurping  the  domain  of  Fancy,  and  have  invaded 
the  kingdom  of  Romance.  Their  chilling  touch  is 
over  everything.  They  are  vulgarising  mankind. 
The  crude  commercialism  of  America,  its  material- 
ising spirit,  its  indifference  to  the  poetical  side  of 
things,  and  its  lack  of  imagination  and  of  high  un- 
attainable ideals,  are  entirely  due  to  that  country 
having  adopted  for  its  national  hero  a  man,  who 
according  to  his  own  confession,  was  incapable  of 
telling  a  lie,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the 
story  of  George  Washington  and  the  cherry-tree 
has  done  more  harm,  and  in  a  shorter  space  of 
time,  than  any  other  moral  tale  in  the  whole  of 
literature." 


28  INTENTIONS 

Cyril.  My  dear  boy ! 

Vivian.  I  assure  you  it  is  the  case,  and  the  amus- 
ing part  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  the  story  of  the 
cherry-tree  is  an  absolute  myth.  However,  you 
must  not  think  that  I  am  too  despondent  about  the 
artistic  future  either  of  America  or  of  our  own 
country.     Listen  to  this  : —  » 

"  That  some  change  will  take  place  before  this 
century  has  drawn  to  its  close  we  have  no  doubt 
whatsoever.  Bored  by  the  tedious  and  improving 
conversation  of  those  who  have  neither  the  wit  to 
exaggerate  nor  the  genius  to  romance,  tired  of  the 
intelligent  person  whose  reminiscences  are  always 
based  upon  memory,  whose  statements  are  invari- 
ably limited  by  probability,  and  who  is  at  any  time 
liable  to  be  corroborated  by  the  merest  Philistine 
who  happens  to  be  present,  Society  sooner  or  later 
must  return  to  its  lost  leader,  the  cultured  and  fas- 
cinating liar.  Who  he  was  who  first,  without  ever 
having  gone  out  to  the  rude  chase,  told  the  won- 
dering cavemen  at  sunset  how  he  had  dragged  the 
Megatherium  from  the  purple  darkness  of  its  jasper 
cave,  or  slain  the  Mammoth  in  single  combat  and 
brought  back  its  gilded  tusks,  we  cannot  tell,  and 
not  one  of  our  modern  anthropologists,  for  all  their 
much-boasted  science,  has  had  the  ordinary  cour- 
age to  tell  us.     Whatever  was  his  name  or  race,  he 


THE    DECAY    OF   LYING  29 

certainly  was  the  true  founder  of  social  intercourse. 
For  the  aim  of  the  liar  is  simply  to  charm,  to  de- 
light, to  give  pleasure.  He  is  the  very  basis  of 
civilized  society,  and  without  him  a  dinner  party, 
even  at  the  mansions  of  the  great,  is  as  dull  as  a 
lecture  at  the  Royal  Society,  or  a  debate  at  the  In- 
corporated Authors,  or  one  of  Mr.  Burnand's  far- 
cical comedies. 

"  Nor  will  he  be  welcomed  by  society  alone.  Art, 
breaking  from  the  prison-house  of  realism,  will  run 
to  greet  him,  and  will  kiss  his  false,  beautiful  lips, 
knowing  that  he  alone  is  in  possession  of  the  great 
secret  of  all  her  manifestations,  the  secret  that 
Truth  is  entirely  and  absolutely  a  matter  of  style ; 
while  Life — poor,  probable,  uninteresting  human 
life — tired  of  repeating  herself  for  the  benefit  of 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  scientific  historians,  and  the 
compilers  of  statistics  in  general,  will  follow  meekly 
after  him,  and  try  to  reproduce,  in  her  own  simple  and 
untutored  way,  some  of  the  marvels  of  which  he  talks. 

"  No  doubt  there  will  always  be  critics  who,  like 
a  certain  writer  in  the  Saturday  Review,  will  gravely 
censure  the  teller  of  fairy  tales  for  his  defective  knowl- 
edge of  natural  history,  who  will  measure  imaginative 
work  by  their  own  lack  of  any  imaginative  faculty, 
and  will  hold  up  their  inkstained  hands  in  horror 
if    some   honest   gentleman,   who   has   never  been 


30  INTENTIONS 

farther  than  the  yew-trees  of  his  own  garden,  pens 
a  fascinating  book  of  travels  like  Sir  John  Mande- 
ville,  or,  like  great  Raleigh,  writes  a  whole  history 
of  the  world,  without  knowing  anything  whatsoever 
about  the  past.  To  excuse  themselves  they  will  try 
and  shelter  under  the  shield  of  him  who  made  Pros- 
pero  the  magician,  and  gave  him  Caliban  and  Ariel 
as  his  servants,  who  heard  the  Tritons  blowing  their 
horns  round  the  coral  reefs  of  the  Enchanted  Isle, 
and  the  fairies  singing  to  each  other  in  a  wood  near 
Athens,  who  led  the  phantom  kings  in  dim  proces- 
sion across  the  misty  Scottish  heath,  and  hid  Hecate 
in  a  cave  with  the  weird  sister.  They  will  call 
upon  Shakespeare — they  always  do — and  will  quote 
that  hackneyed  passage  about  Art  holding  the  mir- 
ror up  to  Nature,  forgetting  that  this  unfortunate 
aphorism  is  deliberately  said  by  Hamlet  in  order  to 
convince  the  bystanders  of  his  absolute  insanity  in 
all  art-matters." 

Cyril.  Ahem !      Another  cigarette,  please. 

Vivian.  My  dear  fellow,  whatever  you  may  say, 
it  is  merely  a  dramatic  utterance,  and  no  more  rep- 
resents Shakespeare's  real  views  upon  art  than  the 
speeches  of  Iago  represent  his  real  views  upon 
morals.     But  let  me  get  to  the  end  of  the  passage : 

"  Art  finds  her  own  perfection  within,  and  not 
outside  of,  herself.     She  is  not  to  be  judged  by  any 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  3 1 

external  standard  of  resemblance.  She  is  a  veil, 
rather  than  a  mirror.  She  has  flowers  that  no  for- 
ests know  of,  birds  that  no  woodland  possesses. 
She  makes  and  unmakes  many  worlds,  and  can 
draw  the  moon  from  heaven  with  a  scarlet  thread. 
Hers  are  the  '  forms  more  real  than  living  man,' 
and  hers  the  great  archetypes  of  which  things  that 
have  existence  are  but  unfinished  copies.  Nature 
has,  in  her  eyes,  no  laws,  no  uniformity.  She 
can  work  miracles  at  her  will,  and  when  she  calls 
monsters  from  the  deep  they  come.  She  can  bid 
the  almond  tree  blossom  in  winter,  and  send  the 
snow  upon  the  ripe  cornfield.  At  her  word  the 
frost  lays  its  silver  finger  on  the  burning  mouth  of 
June,  and  the  winged  lions  creep  out  from  the  hol- 
lows of  the  Lydian  hills.  The  dryads  peer  from 
the  thicket  as  she  passes  by,  and  the  brown  fauns 
smile  strangely  at  her  when  she  comes  near  them. 
She  has  hawk-faced  gods  that  worship  her,  and  the 
centaurs  gallop  at  her  side." 

Cyril.  I  like  that.      I  can  see  it.     Is  that  the  end  ? 

Vivian.  No.  There  is  one  more  passage,  but  it  is 
purely  practical.  It  simply  suggests  some  methods 
by  which  we  could  revive  this  lost  art  of  Lying. 

Cyril.  Well,  before  you  read  it  to  me,  I  should 
like  to  ask  you  a  question.  What  do  you  mean  by 
saying    that    life,    "  poor,    probable,    uninteresting 


32  INTENTIONS 

human  life,"  will  try  to  reproduce  the  marvels  of 
art?  I  can  quite  understand  your  objection  to  art 
being  treated  as  a  mirror.  You  think  it  would  re- 
duce genius  to  the  position  of  a  cracked  looking- 
glass.  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  seri- 
ously believe  that  Life  imitates  Art,  that  Life  in 
fact  is  the  mirror,  and  Art  the  reality  ? 

Vivian.  Certainly  I  do.  Paradox  though  it  may 
seem — and  paradoxes  are  always  dangerous  things 
— it  is  none  the  less  true  that  Life  imitates  art  far 
more  than  Art  imitates  life.  We  have  all  seen  in 
our  own  day  in  England  how  a  certain  curious  and 
fascinating  type  of  beauty,  invented  and  emphasised 
by  two  imaginative  painters,  has  so  influenced  Life 
that  whenever  one  goes  to  a  private  view  or  to  an 
artistic  salon  one  sees,  here  the  mystic  eyes  of  Ros- 
setti's  dream,  the  long  ivory  throat,  the  strange 
square-cut  jaw,  the  loosened  shadowy  hair  that  he 
so  ardently  loved,  there  the  sweet  maidenhood  of 
The  Golden  Stair,  the  blossom-like  mouth  and 
weary  loveliness  of  the  Laus  Amoris,  the  pas- 
sion-pale face  of  Andromeda,  the  thin  hands  and 
lithe  beauty  of  the  Vivien  in  Merliris  Dream. 
And  it  has  always  been  so.  A  great  artist  invents 
a  type,  and  Life  tries  to  copy  it,  to  reproduce  it 
in  a  popular  form,  like  an  enterprising  publisher. 
Neither  Holbein  nor  Vandyck  found  in  England 


THE   DECAY    OF    LYING  33 

what  they  have  given  us.  They  brought  their 
types  with  them,  and  Life,  with  her  keen  imitative 
faculty,  set  herself  to  supply  the  master  with 
models.  The  Greeks,  with  their  quick  artistic  in- 
stinct, understood  this,  and  set  in  the  bride's  cham- 
ber the  statue  of  Hermes  or  of  Apollo,  that  she 
might  bear  children  as  lovely  as  the  works  of  art 
that  she  looked  at  in  her  rapture  or  her  pain. 
They  knew  that  Life  gains  from  Art  not  merely 
spirituality,  depth  of  thought  and  feeling,  soul- 
turmoil  or  soul-peace,  but  that  she  can  form  herself 
on  the  very  lines  and  colours  of  art  and  can  repro- 
duce the  dignity  of  Pheidias  as  well  as  the  grace  of 
Praxiteles.  Hence  came  their  objection  to  realism. 
They  disliked  it  on  purely  social  grounds.  They 
felt  that  it  inevitably  makes  people  ugly,  and  they 
were  perfectly  right.  We  try  to  improve  the  con- 
ditions of  the  race  by  means  of  good  air,  free  sun- 
light, wholesome  water,  and  hideous  bare  buildings 
for  the  better  housing  of  the  lower  orders.  But 
these  things  merely  produce  health ;  they  do  not 
produce  beauty.  For  this,  Art  is  required,  and  the 
true  disciples  of  the  great  artist  are  not  his  studio- 
imitators,  but  those  who  become  like  his  works  of 
art,  be  they  plastic  as  in  Greek  days,  or  pictorial  as 
in  modern  times;  in  a  word,  Life  is  Art's  best, 
Art's  only  pupil. 


34  INTENTIONS 

As  it  is  with  the  visible  arts,  so  it  is  with  litera- 
ture. The  most  obvious  and  the  vulgarest  form  in 
which  this  is  shown  is  in  the  case  of  the  silly  boys 
who,  after  reading  the  adventures  of  Jack  Sheppard 
or  Dick  Turpin,  pillage  the  stalls  of  unfortunate 
apple-women,  break  into  sweet-shops  at  night,  and 
alarm  old  gentlemen  who  are  returning  home  from 
the  city  by  leaping  out  on  them  in  suburban  lanes, 
with  black  masks  and  unloaded  revolvers.  This 
interesting  phenomenon,  which  always  occurs  after 
the  appearance  of  a  new  edition  of  either  of  the 
books  I  have  alluded  to,  is  usually  attributed  to  the 
influence  of  literature  on  the  imagination.  But  this 
is  a  mistake.  The  imagination  is  essentially  creative 
and  always  seeks  for  a  new  form.  The  boy-burglar 
is  simply  the  inevitable  result  of  life's  imitative  in- 
stinct. He  is  Fact,  occupied  as  Fact  usually  is 
with  trying  to  reproduce  Fiction,  and  what  we  see 
in  him  is  repeated  on  an  extended  scale  throughout 
the  whole  of  life.  Schopenhauer  has  analysed  the 
pessimism  that  characterises  modern  thought,  but 
Hamlet  invented  it.  The  world  has  become  sad 
because  a  puppet  was  once  melancholy.  The  Nihi- 
list, that  strange  martyr  who  has  no  faith,  who  goes 
to  the  stake  without  enthusiasm,  and  dies  for  what 
he  does  not  believe  in,  is  a  purely  literary  product. 
He  was  invented  by  Tourgenieff,  and  completed  by 


THE  DECAY  OF  LYING  35 

Dostoieffski.  Robespierre  came  out  of  the  pages  of 
Rousseau  as  surely  as  the  People's  Palace  rose  out 
debris  of  a  novel.  Literature  always  anticipates 
life.  It  does  not  copy  it,  but  moulds  it  to  its  pur- 
pose. The  nineteenth  century,  as  we  know  it,  is 
largely  an  invention  of  Balzac.  Our  Luciens  de 
Rubempre,  our  Rastignacs,  and  De  Marsays  made 
their  first  appearance  on  the  stage  of  the  Comedie 
Hamaine.  We  are  merely  carrying  out,  with  foot- 
notes and  unnecessary  additions,  the  whim  or  fancy 
or  creative  vision  of  a  great  novelist.  I  once  asked 
a  lady,  who  knew  Thackeray  intimately,  whether 
he  had  had  any  model  for  Becky  Sharp.  She  told 
me  that  Becky  was  an  invention,  but  that  the  idea 
of  the  character  had  been  partly  suggested  by  a 
governess  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ken- 
sington Square,  and  was  the  companion  of  a  very 
selfish  and  rich  old  woman.  I  inquired  what  be- 
came of  the  governess,  and  she  replied  that,  oddly 
enough,  some  years  after  the  appearance  of  Vanity 
Fair,  she  ran  away  with  the  nephew  of  the  lady 
with  whom  she  was  living,  and  for  a  short  time 
made  a  great  splash  in  society,  quite  in  Mrs.  Raw- 
don  Crawley's  style,  and  entirely  by  Mrs.  Rawdon 
Crawley's  methods.  Ultimately  she  came  to  grief, 
disappeared  to  the  Continent,  and  used  to  be  occa- 
sionally  seen  at  Monte  Carlo  and  other  gambling 


36  INTENTIONS 

places.  The  noble  gentleman  from  whom  the  same 
great  sentimentalist  drew  Colonel  Newcome  died,  a 
few  months  after  The  JSewcomes  had  reached  a 
fourth  edition,  with  the  word  "  Adsum  "  on  his  lips. 
Shortly  after  Mr.  Stevenson  published  his  curious 
psychological  story  of  transformation,  a  friend  of 
mine,  called  Mr.  Hyde,  was  in  the  north  of  London, 
and  being  anxious  to  get  to  a  railway  station,  took 
what  he  thought  would  be  a  short  cut,  lost  his  way, 
and  found  himself  in  a  network  of  mean,  evil-look- 
ing streets.  Feeling  rather  nervous  he  began  to 
walk  extremely  fast,  when  suddenly  out  of  an  arch- 
way ran  a  child  right  between  his  legs.  It  fell  on 
the  pavement,  he  tripped  over  it,  and  trampled  upon 
it.  Being  of  course  very  much  frightened  and  a 
little  hurt,  it  began  to  scream,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
the  whole  street  was  full  of  rough  people  who  came 
pouring  out  of  the  houses  like  ants.  They  sur- 
rounded him,  and  asked  him  his  name.  He  was  just 
about  to  give  it  when  he  suddenly  remembered  the 
opening  incident  in  Mr.  Stevenson's  story.  He  was 
so  filled  with  horror  at  having  realized  in  his  own 
person  that  terrible  and  well  written  scene,  and  at 
having  done  accidentally,  though  in  fact,  what  the 
Mr.  Hyde  of  fiction  had  done  with  deliberate  intent, 
that  he  ran  away  as  hard  as  he  could  go.  He  was, 
however,  very  closely  followed,  and  finally  he  took 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  37 

refuge  in  a  surgery,  the  door  of  which  happened  to 
be  open,  where  he  explained  to  a  young  assistant, 
who  was  serving  there,  exactly  what  had  occurred. 
The  humanitarian  crowd  were  induced  to  go  away 
on  his  giving  them  a  small  sum  of  money,  and  as 
soon  as  the  coast  was  quite  clear  he  left.  As  he 
passed  out,  the  name  on  the  brass  door-plate  of  the 
surgery  caught  his  eye.  It  was  "Jekyll."  At 
least  it  should  have  been. 

Here  the  imitation,  as  far  as  it  went,  was  of 
course  accidental.  In  the  following  case  the  imita- 
tion was  self-conscious.  In  the  year  1879,  just  after 
I  had  left  Oxford,  I  met  at  a  reception  at  the  house 
of  one  of  the  Foreign  Ministers  a  woman  of  very 
curious  exotic  beauty.  We  became  great  friends, 
and  were  constantly  together.  And  yet  what  in- 
terested most  in  her  was  not  her  beauty,  but  her 
character,  her  entire  vagueness  of  character.  She 
seemed  to  have  no  personality  at  all,  but  simply  the 
possibility  of  many  types.  Sometimes  she  would 
give  herself  up  entirely  to  art,  turn  her  drawing- 
room  into  a  studio,  and  spend  two  or  three  days  a 
week  at  picture-galleries  or  museums.  Then  she 
would  take  to  attending  race-meetings,  wear  the 
most  horsey  clothes,  and  talk  about  nothing  but 
betting.  She  abandoned  religion  for  mesmerism, 
mesmerism  for  politics,  and  politics  for  the  melodra- 


38  INTENTIONS 

matic  excitements  of  philanthropy.  In  fact,  she 
was  a  kind  of  Proteus,  and  as  much  a  failure  in  all 
her  transformations  as  was  that  wondrous  sea-god 
when  Odysseus  laid  hold  of  him.  One  day  a  serial 
began  in  one  of  the  French  magazines.  At  that 
time  I  used  to  read  serial  stories,  and  I  well  remem- 
ber the  shock  of  surprise  I  felt  when  I  came  to  the 
description  of  the  heroine.  She  was  so  like  my 
friend  that  I  brought  her  the  magazine,  and  she  re- 
cognized herself  in  it  immediately,  and  seemed  fas- 
cinated by  the  resemblance.  I  should  tell  you,  by 
the  way,  that  the  story  was  translated  from  some 
dead  Russian  writer,  so  that  the  author  had  not 
taken  his  type  from  my  friend.  Well,  to  put  the 
matter  briefly,  some  months  afterwards  I  was  in 
Venice,  and  finding  the  magazine  in  the  reading- 
room  of  the  hotel,  I  took  it  up  casually  to  see  what 
had  become  of  the  heroine.  It  was  a  most  piteous 
tale,  as  the  girl  had  ended  by  running  away  with  a 
man  absolutely  inferior  to  her,  not  merely  in  social 
station,  but  in  character  and  intellect  also.  I  wrote 
to  my  friend  that  evening  about  my  views  on  John 
Bellini,  and  the  admirable  ices  at  Florio's,  and  the 
artistic  value  of  gondolas,  but  added  a  postscript 
to  the  effect  that  her  double  in  the  story  had  be- 
haved in  a  very  silly  manner.  I  don't  know  why  I 
added  that,  but  I  remember  I  had  a  sort   of  dread 


THE    DECAY    OF   LYING  39 

over  me  that  she  might  do  the  same  thing.  Before 
my  letter  had  reached  her,  she  had  run  away  with 
a  man  who  deserted  her  in  six  months.  I  saw  her 
in  1884  in  Paris,  where  she  was  living  with  her 
mother,  and  I  asked  her  whether  the  story  had  had 
anything  to  do  with  her  action.  She  told  me  that 
she  had  felt  an  absolutely  irresistible  impulse 
to  follow  the  heroine  step  by  step  in  her  strange 
and  fatal  progress,  and  that  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
real  terror  that  she  had  looked  forward  to  the  last 
few  chapters  of  the  story.  When  they  appeared, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  compelled  to  repro- 
duce them  in  life,  and  she  did  so.  It  was  a  most 
clear  example  of  this  imitative  instinct  of  which  I 
was  speaking,  and  an  extremely  tragic  one. 

However,  I  do  not  wish  to  dwell  any  further  upon 
individual  instances.  Personal  experience  is  a  most 
vicious  and  limited  circle.  All  that  I  desire  to  point 
out  is  the  general  principle  that  Life  imitates  Art 
far  more  than  Art  imitates  Life,  and  I  feel  sure  that 
if  you  think  seriously  about  it  you  will  find  that  it 
is  true.  Life  holds  the  mirror  up  to  Art,  and  either 
reproduces  some  strange  type  imagined  by  painter 
or  sculptor,  or  realizes  in  fact  what  has  been  dreamed 
in  fiction.  Scientifically  speaking,  the  basis  of  life — 
the  energy  of  life,  as  Aristotle  would  call  it — is 
simply  the  desire  for  expression,  and  Art  is  always 


40  INTENTIONS 

presenting  various  forms  through  which  this  ex- 
pression can  be  attained.  Life  seizes  on  them  and 
uses  them,  even  if  they  be  to  her  own  hurt.  Young 
men  have  committed  suicide  because  Rolla  did  so, 
have  died  by  their  own  hand  because  by  his  own 
hand  Werther  died.  Think  of  what  we  owe  to  the 
imitation  of  Christ,  of  what  we  owe  to  the  imitation 
of  Caesar. 

Cyril.  The  theory  is  certainly  a  very  curious  one, 
but  to  make  it  complete  you  must  show  that  Nature, 
no  less  than  Life,  is  an  imitation  of  Art.  Are  you 
prepared  to  prove  that? 

Vivian.  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  prepared  to  prove 
anything. 

Cyril.  Nature  follows  the  landscape  painter  then, 
and  takes  her  effects  from  him? 

Vivian.  Certainly.  Where,  if  not  from  the  Im- 
pressionists, do  we  get  those  wonderful  brown  fogs 
that  come  creeping  down  our  streets,  blurring  the 
gas-lamps  and  changing  the  houses  into  monstrous 
shadows  ?  To  whom,  if  not  to  them  and  their  master, 
do  we  owe  the  lovely  silver  mists  that  brood  over  our 
river,  and  turn  to  faint  forms  of  fading  grace  curved 
bridge  and  swaying  barge?  The  extraordinary 
change  that  has  taken  place  in  the  climate  of  London 
during  the  last  ten  years  is  entirely  due  to  this 
particular  school  of  Art.     You  smile.     Consider  the 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  4 1 

matter  from  a  scientific  or  a  metaphysical  point  of 
view,  and  you  will  find  that  I  am  right.  For  what 
is  Nature?  Nature  is  no  great  mother  who  has 
borne  us.  She  is  our  creation.  It  is  in  our  brain 
that  she  quickens  to  life.  Things  are  because  we 
see  them,  and  what  we  see,  and  how  we  see  it, 
depends  on  the  Arts  that  have  influenced  us.  To 
look  at  a  thing  is  very  different  from  seeing  a  thing. 
One  does  not  see  anything  until  one  sees  its  beauty. 
Then,  and  then  only,  does  it  come  into  existence. 
At  present,  people  see  fogs,  not  because  there  are 
fogs,  but  because  poets  and  painters  have  taught 
them  the  mysterious  loveliness  of  such  effects. 
There  may  have  been  fogs  for  centuries  in  London. 
I  dare  say  there  were.  But  no  one  saw  them,  and 
so  we  do  not  know  anything  about  them.  They 
did  not  exist  till  Art  had  invented  them.  Now,  it 
must  be  admitted,  fogs  are  carried  to  excess.  They 
have  become  the  mere  mannerism  of  a  clique,  and 
the  exaggerated  realism  of  their  method  gives  dull 
people  bronchitis.  Where  the  cultured  catch  an 
effect,  the  uncultured  catch  cold.  And  so,  let  us  be 
humane,  and  invite  Art  to  turn  her  wonderful  eyes 
elsewhere.  She  has  done  so  already,  indeed.  That 
white  quivering  sunlight  that  one  sees  now  in  France, 
with  its  strange  blotches  of  mauve,  and  its  restless 
violet  shadows,  is  her  latest  fancy,  and,  on  the  whole, 


42  INTENTIONS 

Nature  reproduces  it  quite  admirably.  Where  she 
used  to  give  us  Corots  and  Daubignys,  she  gives  us 
now  exquisite  Monets  and  entrancing  Pisaros.  In- 
deed there  are  moments,  rare,  it  is  true,  but  still  to 
be  observed  from  time  to  time,  when  Nature  becomes 
absolutely  modern.  Of  course  she  is  not  always  to 
be  relied  upon.  The  fact  is  that  she  is  in  this  un- 
fortunate position.  Art  creates  an  incomparable 
and  unique  effect,  and,  having  done  so,  passes  on  to 
other  things.  Nature,  upon  the  other  hand,  for- 
getting that  imitation  can  be  made  the  sincerest 
form  of  insult,  keeps  on  repeating  this  effect  until 
we  all  become  absolutely  wearied  of  it.  Nobody 
of  any  real  culture,  for  instance,  ever  talks  now-a- 
days  about  the  beauty  of  a  sunset.  Sunsets  are 
quite  old-fashioned.  They  belong  to  the  time  when 
Turner  was  the  last  note  in  art.  To  admire  them 
is  a  distinct  sign  of  provincialism  of  temperament. 
Upon  the  other  hand  they  go  on.  Yesterday  even- 
ing Mrs.  Arundel  insisted  on  my  coming  to  the 
window,  and  looking  at  the  glorious  sky,  as  she 
called  it.  Of  course  I  had  to  look  at  it.  She  is  one 
of  those  absurdly  pretty  Philistines,  to  whom  one  can 
deny  nothing.  And  what  was  it  ?  It  was  simply  a 
very  second-rate  Turner,  a  Turner  of  a  bad  period, 
with  all  the  painter's  worst  faults  exaggerated  and 
over-emphasized.     Of  course,  I  am  quite  ready  to 


THE    DECAY    OF   LYING  43 

admit  that  Life  very  often  commits  the  same  error. 
She  produces  her  false  Renes  and  her  sham  Vautrins, 
just  as  Nature  gives  us,  on  one  day  a  doubtful  Cuyp, 
and  on  another  a  more  than  questionable  Rousseau. 
Still,  Nature  irritates  one  more  when  she  does  things 
of  that  kind.  It  seems  so  stupid,  so  obvious,  so  un- 
necessary. A  false  Vautrin  might  be  delightful.  A 
doubtful  Cuyp  is  unbearable.  However,  I  don't 
want  to  be  too  hard  on  Nature.  I  wish  the  Channel, 
especially  at  Hastings,  did  not  look  quite  so  often 
like  a  Henry  Moore,  grey  pearl  with  yellow  lights, 
but  then,  when  Art  is  more  varied,  Nature  will,  no 
doubt,  be  more  varied  also.  That  she  imitates  Art, 
I  don't  think  even  her  worst  enemy  would  deny 
now.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  keeps  her  in  touch 
with  civilized  man.  But  have  I  proved  my  theory 
to  your  satisfaction? 

Cyril.  You  have  proved  it  to  my  dissatisfaction, 
which  is  better.  But  even  admitting  this  strange 
imitative  instinct  in  Life  and  Nature,  surely  you 
would  acknowledge  that  Art  expresses  the  temper 
of  its  age,  the  spirit  of  its  time,  the  moral  and  social 
conditions  that  surround  it,  and  under  whose  influ- 
ence it  is  produced. 

Vivian.  Certainly  not !  Art  never  expresses  any- 
thing but  itself.  This  is  the  principle  of  my  new 
aesthetics ;    and  it  is  this,  more  than  that  vital  con- 


44  INTENTIONS 

nection  between  form  and  substance,  on  which  Mr. 
Pater  dwells,  that  makes  music  the  type  of  all  the 
arts.  Of  course,  nations  and  individuals,  with  that 
healthy,  natural  vanity  which  is  the  secret  of  exist- 
ence, are  always  under  the  impression  that  it  is  of 
them  that  the  Muses  are  talking,  always  trying  to 
find  in  the  calm  dignity  of  imaginative  art  some 
mirror  of  their  own  turbid  passions,  always  forget- 
ting that  the  singer  of  Life  is  not  Apollo,  but 
Marsyas.  Remote  from  reality,  and  with  her  eyes 
turned  away  from  the  shadows  of  the  cave,  Art  re- 
veals her  own  perfection,  and  the  wondering  crowd 
that  watches  the  opening  of  the  marvellous,  many- 
petalled  rose  fancies  that  it  is  its  own  history  that  is 
being  told  to  it,  its  own  spirit  that  is  finding  ex- 
pression in  a  new  form.  But  it  is  not  so.  The 
highest  art  rejects  the  burden  of  the  human  spirit, 
and  gains  more  from  a  new  medium  or  a  fresh 
material  than  she  does  from  any  enthusiasm  for 
art,  or  from  any  lofty  passion,  or  from  any  great 
awakening  of  the  human  consciousness.  She  de- 
velops purely  on  her  own  lines.  She  is  not  sym- 
bolic of  any  age.  It  is  the  ages  that  are  her  sym- 
bols. 

Even  those  who  hold  that  Art  is  representative  of 
time  and  place  and  people,  cannot  help  admitting 
that  the  more  imitative  an  art  is,  the  less  it  repre- 


THE    DECAY   OF   LYING  45 

sents  to  us  the  spirit  of  its  age.  The  evil  faces  of 
the  Roman  emperors  look  out  at  us  from  the  foul 
porphyry  and  spotted  jasper  in  which  the  realistic 
artists  of  the  day  delighted  to  work,  and  we  fancy 
that  in  those  cruel  lips  and  heavy  sensual  jaws  we 
can  find  the  secret  of  the  ruin  of  the  Empire.  But 
it  was  not  so.  The  vices  of  Tiberius  could  not  de- 
stroy that  supreme  civilization,  any  more  than  the 
virtues  of  the  Antonines  could  save  it.  It  fell  for 
other,  for  less  interesting  reasons.  The  sibyls  and 
prophets  of  the  Sistine  may  indeed  serve  to  in- 
terpret for  some  that  new  birth  of  the  emancipated 
spirit  that  we  call  the  Renaissance  ;  but  what  do  the 
drunken  boors  and  brawling  peasants  of  Dutch  art 
tell  us  about  the  great  soul  of  Holland  ?  The  more 
abstract,  the  more  ideal  an  art  is,  the  more  it  reveals 
to  us  the  temper  of  its  age.  If  we  wish  to  under- 
stand a  nation  by  means  of  its  art,  let  us  look  at  its 
architecture  or  its  music. 

Cyril.  I  quite  agree  with  you  there.  The  spirit 
of  an  age  may  be  best  expressed  in  the  abstract 
ideal  arts,  for  the  spirit  itself  is  abstract  and  ideal. 
Upon  the  other  hand,  for  the  visible  aspect  of  an 
age,  for  its  look,  as  the  phrase  goes,  we  must  of 
course  go  to  the  arts  of  imitation. 

Vivian.  I  don't  think  so.  After  all,  what  the 
imitative  arts  really  give  us  are  merely  the  various 


46  INTENTIONS 

styles  of  particular  artists,  or  of  certain  schools  of 
artists.  Surely  you  don't  imagine  that  the  people  of 
the  Middle  Ages  bore  any  resemblance  at  all  to  the 
figures  on  mediaeval  stained  glass  or  in  mediaeval 
stone  and  wood  carving,  or  on  mediaeval  metal- 
work,  or  tapestries,  or  illuminated  MSS.  They  were 
probably  very  ordinary-looking  people,  with  noth- 
ing grotesque,  or  remarkable,  or  fantastic  in  their 
appearance.  The  Middle  Ages,  as  we  know  them 
in  art,  are  simply  a  definite  form  of  style,  and  there 
is  no  reason  at  all  why  an  artist  with  this  style 
should  not  be  produced  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
No  great  artist  ever  sees  things  as  they  really  are. 
If  he  did,  he  would  cease  to  be  an  artist.  Take 
an  example  from  our  own  day.  I  know  that 
you  are  fond  of  Japanese  things.  Now,  do  you 
really  imagine  that  the  Japanese  people,  as  they  are 
presented  to  us  in  art,  have  any  existence  ?  If  you 
do,  you  have  never  understood  Japanese  art  at  all. 
The  Japanese  people  are  the  deliberate  self-con- 
scious creation  of  certain  individual  artists.  If  you 
set  a  picture  by  Hokusai,  or  Hokkei,  or  any  of  the 
great  native  painters,  beside  a  real  Japanese  gentle- 
man or  lady,  you  will  see  that  there  is  not  the 
slightest  resemblance  between  them.  The  actual 
people  who  live  in  Japan  are  not  unlike  the  general 
run  of  English  people ;  that  is  to  say,  they  are  ex- 


THE    DECAY   OF   LYING  47 

tremely  commonplace,  and  have  nothing  curious  or 
extraordinary  about  them.  In  fact  the  whole  of 
Japan  is  a  pure  invention.  There  is  no  such  coun- 
try, there  are  no  such  people.  One  of  our  most 
charming  painters  went  recently  to  the  Land  of  the 
Chrysanthemum  in  the  foolish  hope  of  seeing  the 
Japanese.  All  he  saw,  all  he  had  the  chance  of 
painting,  were  a  few  lanterns  and  some  fans.  He 
was  quite  unable  to  discover  the  inhabitants,  as  his 
delightful  exhibition  at  Messrs.  Dowdeswell's  Gal- 
lery showed  only  too  well.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  Japanese  people  are,  as  I  have  said,  simply  a 
mode  of  style,  an  exquisite  fancy  of  art.  And  so, 
if  you  desire  to  see  a  Japanese  effect,  you  will  not 
behave  like  a  tourist  and  go  to  Tokio.  On  the  con- 
trary, you  will  stay  at  home,  and  steep  yourself  in 
the  work  of  certain  Japanese  artists,  and  then,  when 
you  have  absorbed  the  spirit  of  their  style,  and 
caught  their  imaginative  manner  of  vision,  you  will 
go  some  afternoon  and  sit  in  the  Park  or  stroll  down 
Piccadilly,  and  if  you  cannot  see  an  absolutely  Jap- 
anese effect  there,  you  will  not  see  it  anywhere. 
Or,  to  return  again  to  the  past,  take  as  another  in- 
stance the  ancient  Greeks.  Do  you  think  that 
Greek  art  ever  tells  us  what  the  Greek  people 
were  like?  Do  you  believe  that  the  Athenian 
women  were  like  the  stately  dignified  figures  of  the 


48  INTENTIONS 

Parthenon  frieze,  or  like  those  marvellous  goddesses 
who  sat  in  the  triangular  pediments  of  the  same 
building?  If  you  judge  from  the  art,  they  cer- 
tainly were  so.  But  read  an  authority,  like  Aris- 
tophanes for  instance.  You  will  find  that  the 
Athenian  ladies  laced  tightly,  wore  high-heeled 
shoes,  died  their  hair  yellow,  painted  and  rouged 
their  faces,  and  were  exactly  like  any  silly  fashion- 
able or  fallen  creature  of  our  own  day.  The  fact  is 
that  we  look  back  on  the  ages  entirely  through  the 
medium  of  Art,  and  Art,  very  fortunately,  has  never 
once  told  us  the  truth. 

Cyril.  But  modern  portraits  by  English  painters, 
what  of  them  ?  Surely  they  are  like  the  people  they 
pretend  to  represent? 

Vivian.  Quite  so.  They  are  so  like  them  that  a 
hundred  years  from  now  no  one  will  believe  in  them. 
The  only  portraits  in  which  one  believes  are  por- 
traits where  there  is  very  little  of  the  sitter  and  a  very 
great  deal  of  the  artist.  Holbein's  drawings  of  the 
men  and  women  of  his  time  impress  us  with  a  sense 
of  their  absolute  reality.  But  this  is  simply  because 
Holbein  compelled  life  to  accept  his  conditions,  to 
restrain  itself  within  his  limitations,  to  reproduce  his 
type,  and  to  appear  as  he  wished  it  to  appear.  It  is 
style  that  makes  us  believe  in  a  thing — nothing  but 
style.       Most  of    our  modern  portrait  painters  are 


THE   DECAY    OF    LYING  49 

doomed  to  absolute  oblivion.  They  never  paint 
what  they  see.  They  paint  what  the  public  sees, 
and  the  public  never  sees  anything. 

Cyril.  Well,  after  that  I  think  I  should  like  to  hear 
the  end  of  your  article. 

Vivian.  With  pleasure.  Whether  it  will  do  any 
good  I  really  cannot  say.  Ours  is  certainly  the  dull- 
est and  most  prosaic  century  possible.  Why,  even 
Sleep  has  played  us  false,  and  has  closed  up  the  gates 
of  ivory,  and  opened  the  gates  of  horn.  The  dreams 
of  the  great  middle  classes  of  this  country,  as  re- 
corded in  Mr.  Myers's  two  bulky  volumes  on  the  sub- 
ject and  in  the  Transactions  of  the  Psychical  Society, 
are  the  most  depressing  things  that  I  have  ever  read. 
There  is  not  even  a  fine  nightmare  among  them. 
They  are  commonplace,  sordid,  and  tedious.  As  for 
the  Church  I  cannot  conceive  anything  better  for  the 
culture  of  a  country  than  the  presence  in  it  of  a 
body  of  men  whose  duty  it  is  to  believe  in  the  super- 
natural, to  perform  daily  miracles,  and  to  keep  alive 
that  mythopoeic  faculty  which  is  so  essential  for  the 
imagination.  But  in  the  English  Church  a  man  suc- 
ceeds, not  through  his  capacity  for  belief  but  through 
his  capacity  for  disbelief.  Ours  is  the  only  Church 
where  the  sceptic  stands  at  the  altar,  and  where  St. 
Thomas  is  regarded  as  the  ideal  apostle.  Many  a 
worthy  clergyman,  who  passes  his  life  in  admirable 


50  INTENTIONS 

works  of  kindly  charity,  lives  and  dies  unnoticed  and 
unknown ;  but  it  is  sufficient  for  some  shallow  un- 
educated passman  out  of  either  University  to  get  up 
in  his  pulpit  and  express  his  doubts  about  Noah's 
ark,  or  Balaam's  ass,  or  Jonah  and  the  whale,  for 
half  of  London  to  flock  to  hear  him,  and  to  sit  open- 
mouthed  in  rapt  admiration  at  his  superb  intellect. 
The  growth  of  common  sense  in  the  English  Church 
is  a  thing  very  much  to  be  regretted.  It  is  really  a 
degrading  concession  to  a  low  form  of  realism.  It  is 
silly,  too.  It  springs  from  an  entire  ignorance  of 
psychology.  Man  can  believe  the  impossible,  but 
man  can  never  believe  the  improbable.  However, 
I  must  read  the  end  of  my  article :  — 

"  What  we  have  to  do,  what  at  any  rate  it  is  our 
duty  to  do,  is  to  revive  this  old  art  of  Lying.  Much 
of  course  may  be  done,  in  the  way  of  educating  the 
public,  by  amateurs  in  the  domestic  circle,  at  literary 
lunches,  and  at  afternoon  teas.  But  this  is  merely 
the  light  and  graceful  side  of  lying,  such  as  was  pro- 
bably heard  at  Cretan  dinner  parties.  There  are 
many  other  forms.  Lying  for  the  sake  of  gaining 
some  immediate  personal  advantage,  for  instance — 
lying  with  a  moral  purpose,  as  it  is  usually  called — 
though  of  late  it  has  been  rather  looked  down  upon, 
was  extremely  popular  with  the  antique  world. 
Athena  laughs  when  Odysseus  tells  her  '  his  words 


THE   DECAY    OF    LYING  5 1 

of  sly  devising,'  as  Mr.  William  Morris  phrases  it, 
and  the  glory  of  mendacity  illumines  the  pale  brow 
of  the  stainless  hero  of  Euripidean  tragedy,  and  sets 
among  the  noble  women  of  the  past  the  young  bride 
of  one  of  Horace's  most  exquisite  odes.  Later  on, 
what  at  first  had  been  merely  a  natural  instinct  was 
elevated  into  a  self-conscious  science.  Elaborate 
rules  were  laid  down  for  the  guidance  of  mankind, 
and  an  important  school  of  literature  grew  up  round 
the  subject.  Indeed, when  one  remembers  the  excel- 
lent philosophical  treatise  of  Sanchez  on  the  whole 
question  one  cannot  help  regretting  that  no  one  has 
ever  thought  of  publishing  a  cheap  and  condensed 
edition  of  the  works  of  that  great  casuist.  A  short 
primer,  '  When  to  Lie  and  How,'  if  brought  out  in 
an  attractive  and  not  too  expensive  a  form,  would  no 
doubt  command  a  large  sale,  and  would  prove  of 
real  practical  service  to  many  earnest  and  deep- 
thinking  people.  Lying  for  the  sake  of  the  improve- 
ment of  the  young,  which  is  the  basis  of  home  educa- 
tion, still  lingers  amongst  us,  and  its  advantages  are  so 
admirably  set  forth  in  the  early  books  of  Plato's  Re- 
public that  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  them  here. 
It  is  a  mode  of  lying  for  which  all  good  mothers  have 
peculiar  capabilities,  but  it  is  capable  of  still  further 
development,  and  has  been  sadly  overlooked  by  the 
School  Board.     Lying  for  the  sake  of  a  monthly  sal- 


52  INTENTIONS 

ary  is  of  course  well  known  in  Fleet  Street,  and  the 
profession  of  a  political  leader-writer  is  not  without 
its  advantages.  But  it  is  said  to  be  a  somewhat  dull 
occupation,  and  it  certainly  does  not  lead  to  much 
beyond  a  kind  of  ostentatious  obscurity.  The  only 
form  of  lying  that  is  absolutely  beyond  reproach  is 
Lying  for  its  own  sake,  and  the  highest  development 
of  this  is,  as  we  have  already  pointed  out,  Lying  in 
Art.  Just  as  those  who  do  not  love  Plato  more  than 
Truth  cannot  pass  beyond  the  threshold  of  the 
Academe,  so  those  who  do  not  love  Beauty  more 
than  Truth  never  know  the  inmost  shrine  of  Art.  The 
solid  stolid  British  intellect  lies  in  the  desert  sands 
like  the  Sphinx  in  Flaubert's  marvellous  tale,  and 
fantasy  La  Chimere,  dances  round  it,  and  calls  to  it 
with  her  false,  flute-toned  voice.  It  may  not  hear 
her  now,  but  surely  some  day,  when  we  are  all  bored 
to  death  with  the  commonplace  character  of  modern 
fiction,  it  will  hearken  to  her  and  try  to  borrow  her 
wings. 

"  And  when  that  day  dawns,  or  sunset  reddens  how 
joyous  we  shall  all  be!  Facts  will  be  regarded  as 
discreditable,  Truth  will  be  found  mourning  over  her 
fetters,  and  Romance,  with  her  temper  of  wonder, 
will  return  to  the  land.  The  very  aspect  of  the 
world  will  change  to  our  startled  eyes.  Out  of  the 
sea  will  rise  Behemoth  and  Leviathan,  and  sail  round 


THE  DECAY  OF  LYING  53 

the  high-pooped  galleys,  as  they  do  on  the  delight- 
ful maps  of  those  ages  when  books  on  geography 
were  actually  readable.  Dragons  will  wander  about 
the  waste  places,  and  the  phoenix  will  soar  from  her 
nest  of  fire  into  the  air.  We  shall  lay  our  hands 
upon  the  basilisk,  and  see  the  jewel  in  the  toad's  head. 
Champing  his  gilded  oats,  the  Hippogriff  will  stand 
in  our  stalls,  and  over  our  heads  will  float  the  Blue 
Bird  singing  of  beautiful  and  impossible  things,  of 
things  that  are  lovely  and  that  never  happened,  of 
things  that  are  not  and  that  should  be.  But  before 
this  comes  to  pass  we  must  cultivate  the  lost  art  of 
Lying." 

Cyril.  Then  we  must  certainly  cultivate  it  at  once. 
But  in  order  to  avoid  making  any  error  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  briefly  the  doctrines  of  the  new  aesthetics. 

Vivian.  Briefly,  then,  they  are  these.  Art  never 
expresses  anything  but  itself.  It  has  an  independ- 
ent life,  just  as  Thought  has,  and  develops  purely  on 
its  own  lines.  It  is  not  necessarily  realistic  in  an 
age  of  realism,  nor  spiritual  in  an  age  of  faith.  So 
far  from  being  the  creation  of  its  time,  it  is  usually  in 
direct  opposition  to  it,  and  the  only  history  that  it 
preserves  for  us  is  the  history  of  its  own  progress. 
Sometimes  it  returns  upon  its  footsteps,  and  revives 
some  antique  form,  as  happened  in  the  archaistic 
movement  of  late  Greek   Art,  and  in  the  pre-Ra- 


54  INTENTIONS 

phaelite  movement  of  our  own  day.  At  other  times 
it  entirely  anticipates  its  age,  and  produces  in  one 
century  work  that  it  takes  another  century  to  under- 
stand, to  appreciate,  and  to  enjoy.  In  no  case  does 
it  reproduce  its  age.  To  pass  from  the  art  of  a  time 
to  the  time  itself  is  the  great  mistake  that  all  his- 
torians commit. 

The  second  doctrine  is  this.  All  bad  art  comes 
from  returning  to  Life  and  Nature,  and  elevating 
them  into  ideals.  Life  and  Nature  may  sometimes 
be  used  as  part  of  Art's  rough  material,  but  before 
they  are  of  any  real  service  to  art  they  must  be 
translated  into  artistic  conventions.  The  moment 
Art  surrenders  its  imaginative  medium  it  surrenders 
everything.  As  a  method  Realism  is  a  complete 
failure,  and  the  two  things  that  every  artist  should 
avoid  are  modernity  of  form  and  modernity  of 
subject-matter.  To  us,  who  live  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  any  century  is  a  suitable  subject  for  art 
except  our  own.  The  only  beautiful  things  are  the 
things  that  do  not  concern  us.  It  is,  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  quoting  myself,  exactly  because  Hecuba 
is  nothing  to  us  that  her  sorrows  are  so  suitable  a 
motive  for  a  tragedy.  Besides,  it  is  only  the  modern 
that  ever  becomes  old-fashioned.  M.  Zola  sits  down 
to  give  us  a  picture  of  the  Second  Empire.  Who 
cares  for  the  Second  Empire  now?     It  is  out  of 


THE    DECAY    OF    LYING  55 

date.  Life  goes  faster  than  Realism,  but  Romanticism 
is  always  in  front  of  Life. 

The  third  doctrine  is  that  Life  imitates  Art  far 
more  than  Art  imitates  Life.  This  results  not  merely 
from  Life's  imitative  instinct,  but  from  the  fact  that 
the  self-conscious  aim  of  Life  is  to  find  expression, 
and  that  Art  offers  it  certain  beautiful  forms  through 
which  it  may  realize  that  energy.  It  is  a  theory 
that  has  never  been  put  forward  before,  but  it  is 
extremely  fruitful,  and  throws  an  entirely  new  light 
upon  the  history  of  Art. 

It  follows,  as  a  corollary  from  this,  that  external 
Nature  also  imitates  Art.  The  only  effects  that  she 
can  show  us  are  effects  that  we  have  already  seen 
through  poetry,  or  in  paintings.  This  is  the  secret 
of  Nature's  charm,  as  well  as  the  explanation  of 
Nature's  weakness. 

The  final  revelation  is  that  Lying,  the  telling  of 
beautiful  untrue  things,  is  the  proper  aim  of  Art. 
But  of  this  I  think  I  have  spoken  at  sufficient 
length.  And  now  let  us  go  out  on  the  terrace, 
where  "droops  the  milk-white  peacock  like  a  ghost," 
while  the  evening  star  "  washes  the  dusk  with  silver." 
At  twilight  nature  becomes  a  wonderfully  suggestive 
effect,  and  is  not  without  loveliness,  though  perhaps 
its  chief  use  is  to  illustrate  quotations  from  the 
poets.     Come!      We  have  talked  long  enough. 


PEN    PENCIL    AND    POISON 

A   STUDY   IN   GREEN 


PEN  PENCIL  AND  POISON 


It  has  constantly  been  made  a  subject  of  reproach 
against  artists  and  men  of  letters  that  they  are  lack- 
ing in  wholeness  and  completeness  of  nature.  As 
a  rule  this  must  necessarily  be  so.  That  very  con- 
centration of  vision  and  intensity  of  purpose  which 
is  the  characteristic  of  the  artistic  temperament  is  in 
itself  a  mode  of  limitation.  To  those  who  are  pre- 
occupied with  the  beauty  of  form  nothing  else  seems 
of  much  importance.  Yet  there  are  many  excep- 
tions to  this  rule.  Rubens  served  as  ambassador, 
and  Goethe  as  state  councillor,  and  Milton  as  Latin 
secretary  to  Cromwell.  Sophocles  held  civic  office  in 
his  own  city  ;  the  humourists,  essayists,  and  novelists 
of  modern  America  seem  to  desire  nothing  better 
than  to  become  the  diplomatic  representatives  of 
their  country ;  and  Charles  Lamb's  friend,  Thomas 
Griffiths  Wainewright,  the  subject  of  this  brief  memoir, 
though  of  an  extremely  artistic  temperament,  fol- 

59 


60  INTENTIONS 

lowed  many  masters  other  than  art,  being  not 
merely  a  poet  and  a  painter  and  an  art-critic,  an 
antiquarian,  and  a  writer  of  prose,  an  amateur  of 
beautiful  things,  and  a  dilettante  of  things  delight- 
ful, but  also  a  forger  of  no  mean  or  ordinary  capa- 
bilities, and  as  a  subtle  and  secret  poisoner  almost 
without  rival  in  this  or  any  age. 

This  remarkable  man,  so  powerful  with  "  pen, 
pencil,  and  poison,"  as  a  great  poet  of  our  own  day 
has  finely  said  of  him,  was  born  at  Chiswick,  in  1 794. 
His  father  was  the  son  of  a  distinguished  solicitor  of 
Gray's  Inn  and  Hatton  Garden.  His  mother  was 
the  daughter  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Griffiths,  the 
editor  and  founder  of  the  Monthly  Review,  the 
partner  in  another  literary  speculation  of  Thomas 
Davies,  that  famous  bookseller  of  whom  Johnson  said 
that  he  was  not  a  bookseller,  but  "  a  gentleman  who 
dealt  in  books,"  the  friend  of  Goldsmith  and  Wedg- 
wood, and  one  of  the  most  well-known  men  of  his 
day.  Mrs.  Wainewright  died,  in  giving  him  birth, 
at  the  early  age  of  twenty-one,  and  an  obituary 
notice  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  tells  us  of  her 
"  amiable  disposition  and  numerous  accomplish- 
ments," and  adds  somewhat  quaintly  that  "  she  is 
supposed  to  have  understood  the  writings  of  Mr. 
Locke  as  well  as  perhaps  any  person  of  either  sex 
now  living."     His  father  did  not  long  survive  his 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  6l 

young  wife,  and  the  little  child  seems  to  have  been 
brought  up  by  his  grandfather,  and,  on  the  death 
of  the  latter  in  1803,  by  his  uncle  George  Edward 
Griffiths,  whom  he  subsequently  poisoned.  His 
boyhood  was  passed  at  Linden  House,  Turnham 
Green,  one  of  those  many  fine  Georgian  mansions 
that  have  unfortunately  disappeared  before  the  in- 
roads of  the  suburban  builder,  and  to  its  lovely 
gardens  and  well- timbered  park  he  owed  that  simple 
and  impassioned  love  of  nature  which  never  left  him 
all  through  his  life,  and  which  made  him  so  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  the  spiritual  influences  of  Words- 
worth's poetry.  He  went  to  school  at  Charles 
Burney's  academy  at  Hammersmith.  Mr.  Burney 
was  the  son  of  the  historian  of  music,  and  the  near 
kinsman  of  the  artistic  lad  who  was  destined  to  turn 
out  his  most  remarkable  pupil.  He  seems  to  have 
been  a  man  of  a  good-  deal  of  culture,  and  in  after 
years  Mr.  Wainewright  often  spoke  of  him  with  much 
affection  as  a  philosopher,  an  archaeologist,  and  an 
admirable  teacher  who,  while  he  valued  the  in- 
tellectual side  of  education,  did  not  forget  the  im- 
portance of  early  moral  training.  It  was  under  Mr. 
Burney  that  he  first  developed  his  talent  as  an  artist, 
and  Mr.  Hazlitt  tells  us  that  a  drawing  book  which 
he  used  at  school  is  still  extant,  and  displays  great 
talent  and  natural  feeling.     Indeed,  painting   was 


62  INTENTIONS 

the  first  art  that  fascinated  him.  It  was  not  till 
much  later  that  he  sought  to  find  expression  by  pen 
or  poison. 

Before  this,  however,  he  seems  to  have  been  car- 
ried away  by  boyish  dreams  of  the  romance  and 
chivalry  of  a  soldier's  life,  and  to  have  become  a 
young  guardsman.  But  the  reckless  dissipated  life 
of  his  companions  failed  to  satisfy  the  refined  ar- 
tistic temperament  of  one  who  was  made  for  other 
things.  In  a  short  time  he  wearied  of  the  service. 
"  Art,"  he  tells  us,  in  words  that  still  move  many 
by  their  ardent  sincerity  and  strange  fervour,  "Art 
touched  her  renegade;  by  her  pure  and  high  in- 
fluences the  noisome  mists  were  purged ;  my  feel- 
ings, parched,  hot,  and  tarnished,  were  renovated 
with  cool,  fresh  bloom,  simple,  beautiful  to  the 
simple-hearted."  But  Art  was  not  the  only  cause 
of  the  change.  "  The  writings  of  Wordsworth,"  he 
goes  on  to  say,  "  did  much  towards  calming  the 
confusing  whirl  necessarily  incident  to  sudden  mu- 
tations. I  wept  over  them  tears  of  happiness  and 
gratitude."  He  accordingly  left  the  army,  with  its 
rough  barrack-life  and  coarse  mess-room  tittle-tattle, 
and  returned  to  Linden  House,  full  of  this  new- 
born enthusiasm  for  culture.  A  severe  illness,  in 
which,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  was  "  broken  like 
a  vessel  of  clay,"  prostrated  him  for  a  time.     His 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  63 

delicately  strung  organization,  however  indifferent 
it  might  have  been  to  inflicting  pain  on  others,  was 
itself  most  keenly  sensitive  to  pain.  He  shrank 
from  suffering  as  a  thing  that  mars  and  maims 
human  life,  and  seems  to  have  wandered  through 
that  terrible  valley  of  melancholia  from  which  so 
many  great,  perhaps  greater,  spirits  have  never 
emerged.  But  he  was  young — only  twenty-five 
years  of  age — and  he  soon  passed  out  of  the  "  dead 
black  waters,"  as  he  called  them,  into  the  larger 
air  of  humanistic  culture.  As  he  was  recovering 
from  the  illness  that  had  led  him  almost  to  the 
gates  of  death,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  taking  up 
literature  as  an  art.  "  I  said  with  John  Woodvill," 
he  cries,  "  it  were  a  life  of  gods  to  dwell  in  such  an 
element,"  to  see,  and  hear,  and  write  brave 
things :  — 

"  These  high  and  gusty  relishes  of  life 
Have  no  allayings  of  mortality." 

It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  in  this  passage 
we  have  the  utterance  of  a  man  who  had  a  true 
passion  for  letters.  "  To  see,  and  hear,  and  write 
brave  things,"  this  was  his  aim. 

Scott,  the  editor  of  the  London  Magazine,  struck 
by  the  young  man's  genius,  or  under  the  influence 
of  the  strange  fascination  that  he  exercised  on  every 


64  INTENTIONS 

one  who  knew  him,  invited  him  to  write  a  series  of 
articles  on  artistic  subjects,  and  under  a  series  of 
fanciful  pseudonyms  he  began  to  contribute  to  the 
literature  of  his  day.  Janus  Weathercock,  Egomet 
Bonmot,  and  Van  Vinkvooms,  were  some  of  the 
grotesque  masks  under  which  he  chose  to  hide  his 
seriousness,  or  to  reveal  his  levity.  A  mask  tells 
us  more  than  a  face.  These  disguises  intensified 
his  personality.  In  an  incredibly  short  time  he 
seems  to  have  made  his  mark.  Charles  Lamb 
speaks  of  "  kind,  light-hearted  Wainewright," 
whose  prose  is  "  capital."  We  hear  of  him  enter- 
taining Macready,  John  Forster,  Maginn,  Talfourd, 
Sir  Wentworth  Dilke,  the  poet  John  Clare,  and 
others,  at  a  petit-diner.  Like  Disraeli,  he  deter- 
mined to  startle  the  town  as  a  dandy,  and  his  beau- 
tiful rings,  his  antique  cameo  breast-pin,  and  his 
pale  lemon-coloured  kid  gloves,  were  well  known, 
and  indeed  were  regarded  by  Hazlitt  as  being  the 
signs  of  a  new  manner  in  literature :  while  his  rich 
curly  hair,  fine  eyes,  and  exquisite  white  hands 
gave  him  the  dangerous  and  delightful  distinction 
of  being  different  from  others.  There  was  some- 
thing in  him  of  Balzac's  Lucien  de  Rubempre.  At 
times  he  reminds  us  of  Julien  Sorel.  De  Quincy 
saw  him  once.  It  was  at  a  dinner  at  Charles 
Lamb's.     "  Amongst    the     company,    all    literary 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  65 

men,  sat  a  murderer,"  he  tells  us,  and  he  goes  on 
to  describe  how  on  that  day  he  had  been  ill,  and 
had  hated  the  face  of  man  and  woman,  and  yet 
found  himself  looking  with  intellectual  interest 
across  the  table  at  the  young  writer  beneath  whose 
affectations  of  manner  there  seemed  to  him  to  lie 
so  much  unaffected  sensibility,  and  speculates  on 
"  what  sudden  growth  of  another  interest,"  would 
have  changed  his  mood,  had  he  known  of  what 
terrible  sin  the  guest  to  whom  Lamb  paid  so  much 
attention  was  even  then  guilty. 

His  life-work  falls  naturally  under  the  three  heads 
suggested  by  Mr.  Swinburne,  and  it  may  be  partly 
admitted  that,  if  we  set  aside  his  achievements  in 
the  sphere  of  poison,  what  he  has  actually  left  to  us 
hardly  justifies  his  reputation. 

But  then  it  is  only  the  Philistine  who  seeks  to 
estimate  a  personality  by  the  vulgar  test  of  produc- 
tion. This  young  dandy  sought  to  be  somebody, 
rather  than  to  do  something.  He  recognized  that 
Life  itself  is  an  art,  and  has  its  modes  of  style  no 
less  than  the  arts  that  seek  to  express  it.  Nor  is 
his  work  without  interest.  We  hear  of  William 
Blake  stopping  in  the  Royal  Academy  before  one 
of  his  pictures  and  pronouncing  it  to  be  "very 
fine."  His  essays  are  prefiguring  of  much  that  has 
since  been  realized.      He  seems  to  have  anticipated 


66  INTENTIONS 

some  of  those  accidents  of  modern  culture  that  are 
regarded  by  many  as  true  essentials.  He  writes 
about  La  Gioconda,  and  early  French  poets  and  the 
Italian  Renaissance.  He  loves  Greek  gems,  and 
Persian  carpets,  and  Elizabethan  translations  of  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  and  the  Hypnerotomachia,  and  book- 
bindings, and  early  editions,  and  wide-margined 
proofs.  He  is  keenly  sensitive  to  the  value  of 
beautiful  surroundings,  and  never  wearies  of  de- 
scribing to  us  the  rooms  in  which  he  lived,  or 
would  have  liked  to  live.  He  had  that  curious  love 
of  green,  which  in  individuals  is  always  the  sign  of 
a  subtle  artistic  temperament,  and  in  nations  is  said 
to  denote  a  laxity,  if  not  a  decadence  of  morals. 
Like  Baudelaire,  he  was  extremely  fond  of  cats,  and 
with  Gautier,  he  was  fascinated  by  that  "  sweet 
marble  monster"  of  both  sexes  that  we  can  still  see 
at  Florence  and  in  the  Louvre. 

There  is  of  course  much  in  his  descriptions,  and 
his  suggestions  for  decoration,  that  shows  that  he 
did  not  entirely  free  himself  from  the  false  taste 
of  his  time.  But  it  is  clear  that  he  was  one  of  the 
first  to  recognize  what  is,  indeed,  the  very  keynote 
of  aesthetic  eclecticism,  I  mean  the  true  harmony 
of  all  really  beautiful  things  irrespective  of  age  or 
place,  of  school  or  manner.  He  saw  that  in  deco- 
rating a  room,  which  is  to  be,  not  a  room  for  show, 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  67 

but  a  room  to  live  in,  we  should  never  aim  at  any- 
archaeological  reconstruction  of  the  past,  nor  burden 
ourselves  with  any  fanciful  necessity  for  historical 
accuracy.  In  this  artistic  perception  he  was  per- 
fectly right.  All  beautiful  things  belong  to  the 
same  age. 

And  so,  in  his  own  library,  as  he  describes  it,  we 
find  the  delicate  fictile  vase  of  the  Greek,  with  its 
exquisitely  painted  figures  and  the  faint  KAAOS 
finely  traced  upon  its  side,  and  behind  it  hangs  an 
engraving  of  the  "  Delphic  Sibyl  "  of  Michael 
Angelo,  or  of  the  "  Pastoral  "  of  Giorgione.  Here 
is  a  bit  of  Florentine  majolica,  and  here  a  rude 
lamp  from  some  old  Roman  tomb.  On  the  table 
lies  a  book  of  Hours  "  cased  in  a  cover  of  solid  silver 
gilt,  wrought  with  quaint  devices  and  studded  with 
small  brilliants  and  rubies,"  and  close  by  it  "squats 
a  little  ugly  monster,  a  Lar,  perhaps,  dug  up  in  the 
sunny  fields  of  corn-bearing  Sicily."  Some  dark 
antique  bronzes  contrast  "  with  the  pale  gleam  of 
two  noble  CJiristi  Criicifixi,  one  carved  in  ivory, 
the  other  moulded  in  wax."  He  has  his  trays  of 
Tassie's  gems,  his  tiny  Louis-Ouatorze  bonbonniere 
with  a  miniature  by  Petitot,  his  highly  prized 
"brown-biscuit  teapots,  filagree-worked," his  citron 
morocco  letter-case,  and  his  "  pomona-green " 
chair. 


68  INTENTIONS 

One  can  fancy  him  lying  there  in  the  midst  of  his 
books  and  casts  and  engravings,  a  true  virtuoso,  a 
subtle  connoisseur,  turning  over  his  fine  collection 
of  Marc  Antonios,  and  his  Turner's  "  Liber  Stu- 
diorum,"  of  which  he  was  a  warm  admirer,  or  ex- 
amining with  a  magnifier  some  of  his  antique  gems 
and  cameos,  "  the  head  of  Alexander  on  an  onyx  of 
two  strata,"  or  that  superb  altissimo  relievo  on  cor- 
nelian, Jupiter  yEgiochus."  He  was  always  a  great 
amateur  of  engravings,  and  gives  some  very  useful 
suggestions  as  to  the  best  means  of  forming  a  col- 
lection. Indeed,  while  fully  appreciating  modern 
art,  he  never  lost  sight  of  the  importance  of  repro- 
ductions of  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  past,  and 
all  that  he  says  about  the  value  of  plaster  casts  is 
quite  admirable. 

As  an  art-critic  he  concerned  himself  primarily 
with  the  complex  impressions  produced  by  a  work 
of  art,  and  certainly  the  first  step  in  aesthetic  criti- 
cism is  to  realize  one's  own  impressions.  He  cared 
nothing  for  abstract  discussions  on  the  nature  of  the 
Beautiful,  and  the  historical  method,  whichf  has  since 
yielded  such  rich  fruit,  did  not  belong  to  his  day, 
but  he  never  lost  sight  of  the  great  truth  that  Art's 
first  appeal  is  neither  to  the  intellect  nor  to  the  emo- 
tions, but  purely  to  the  artistic  temperament,  and  he 
more  than  once  points  out  that  this  temperament, 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  69 

this  "taste,"  as  he  calls  it,  being  unconsciously  guided 
and  made  perfect  by  frequent  contact  with  the  best 
work,  becomes  in  the  end  a  form  of  right  judgment. 
Of  course  there  are  fashions  in  art  just  as  there  are 
fashions  in  dress,  and  perhaps  none  of  us  can  ever 
quite  free  ourselves  from  the  influence  of  custom 
and  the  influence  of  novelty.  He  certainly  could 
not,  and  he  frankly  acknowledges  how  difficult  it  is 
to  form  any  fair  estimate  of  contemporary  work. 
But,  on  the  whole,  his  taste  was  good  and  sound. 
He  admired  Turner  and  Constable  at  a  time  when 
they  were  not  so  much  thought  of  as  they  are  now, 
and  saw  that  for  the  highest  landscape  art  we  re- 
quire more  than  "  mere  industry  and  accurate  tran- 
scription." Of  Crome's  "  Heath  Scene  near  Nor- 
wich "  he  remarks  that  it  shows  "  how  much  a 
subtle  observation  of  the  elements,  in  their  wild 
moods,  does  for  a  most  uninteresting  flat,"  and  of 
the  popular  type  of  landscape  of  his  day  he  says 
that  is  "  simply  an  enumeration  of  hill  and  dale, 
stumps  of  trees,  shrubs,  water,  meadows,  cottages, 
and  houses ;  little  more  than  topography,  a  kind  of 
pictorial  map-work ;  in  which  rainbows,  showers, 
mists,  haloes,  large  beams  shooting  through  rifted 
clouds,  storms,  starlight,  all  the  most  valued  mate- 
rials of  the  real  painter,  are  not."  He  had  a  thor 
ough  dislike  of  what  is  obvious  or  commonplace  in 


70  INTENTIONS 

art,  and  while  he  was  charmed  to  entertain  Wilkie 
at  dinner,  he  cared  as  little  for  Sir  David's  pictures 
as  he  did  for  Mr.  Crabbe's  poems.  With  the  imi- 
tative and  realistic  tendencies  of  his  day  he  had  no 
sympathy,  and  he  tells  us  frankly  that  his  great 
admiration  for  Fuseli  was  largely  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  little  Swiss  did  not  consider  it  necessary 
that  an  artist  should  only  paint  what  he  sees.  The 
qualities  that  he  sought  for  in  a  picture  were  com- 
position, beauty  and  dignity  of  line,  richness  of 
colour,  and  imaginative  power.  Upon  the  other 
hand,  he  was  not  a  doctrinaire.  "  I  hold  that  no 
work  of  art  can  be  tried  otherwise  than  by  laws  de- 
duced from  itself:  whether  or  not  it  be  consistent 
with  itself  is  the  question."  This  is  one  of  his  ex- 
cellent aphorisms.  And  in  criticising  painters  so 
different  as  Landseer  and  Martin,  Stothard  and 
Etty,  he  shows  that,  to  use  a  phrase  now  classical, 
he  is  trying  "  to  see  the  object  as  in  itself  it 
really  is." 

However,  as  I  pointed  out  before,  he  never  feels 
quite  at  his  ease  in  his  criticisms  of  contemporary 
work.  "  The  present,"  he  says,  "  is  about  as  agree- 
able a  confusion  to  me  as  Ariosto  on  the  first  peru- 
sal. .  .  .  Modern  things  dazzle  me.  I  must  look 
at  them  through  Time's  telescope.  Elia  complains 
that  to  him  the  merit  of  a  MS.  poem  is  uncertain ; 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  7 1 

'print,'  as  he  excellently  says,  'settles  it'  Fifty 
years'  toning  does  the  same  thing  to  a  picture." 
He  is  happier  when  he  is  writing  about  Watteau 
and  Lancret,  about  Rubens  and  Giorgione,  about 
Rembrandt,  Correggio  and  Michael  Angelo ;  hap- 
piest of  all  when  he  is  writing  about  Greek  things. 
What  is  Gothic  touched  him  very  little,  but  classical 
art  and  the  art  of  the  Renaissance  were  always  dear 
to  him.  He  saw  what  our  English  school  could 
gain  from  a  study  of  Greek  models,  and  never 
wearies  of  pointing  out  to  the  young  student  the 
artistic  possibilities  that  lie  dormant  in  Hellenic 
marbles  and  Hellenic  methods  of  work.  In  his 
judgments  on  the  great  Italian  Masters,  says  De 
Quincey,  "  There  seemed  a  tone  of  sincerity  and 
of  native  sensibility,  as  in  one  who  spoke  for  him- 
self, and  was  not  merely  a  copier  from  books." 
The  highest  praise  that  we  can  give  to  him  is  that 
he  tried  to  revive  style  as  a  conscious  tradition.  But 
he  saw  that  no  amount  of  art-lectures  or  art  con- 
gresses, or  "plans  for  advancing  the  fine  arts,"  will 
ever  produce  this  result.  The  people,  he  says  very 
wisely,  and  in  the  true  spirit  of  Toynbee  Hall, 
must  always  have  "  the  best  models  constantly 
before  their  eyes." 

As    is    to    be    expected    from    one    who    was    a 
painter,  he  is  often  extremely  technical  in  his  art 


*]2  INTENTIONS 

criticisms.  Of  Tintoret's  "St.  George  delivering 
the  Egyptian  Princess  from  the  Dragon  "  he  re- 
marks :  — 

"The  robe  of  Sabra,  warmly  glazed  with  Prussian  blue,  is 
relieved  from  the  pale  greenish  background  by  a  vermilion 
scarf;  and  the  full  hues  of  both  are  beautifully  echoed,  as  it 
were,  in  a  lower  key  by  the  purple-lake  coloured  stuffs  and 
bluish  iron  armour  of  the  saint,  besides  an  ample  balance  to 
the  vivid  azure  drapery  on  the  foreground  in  the  indigo 
shades  of  the  wild  wood  surrounding  the  castle." 

And  elsewhere  he  talks  learnedly  of  "  a  delicate 
Schiavone,  various  as  a  tulip-bed,  with  rich  broken 
tints,"  of  "  a  glowing  portrait,  remarkable  for  mor- 
bidezza,  by  the  scarce  Moroni,"  and  of  another  pic- 
ture being  "  pulpy  in  the  carnations." 

But,  as  a  rule,  he  deals  with  his  impressions  of 
the  work  as  an  artistic  whole,  and  tries  to  translate 
those  impressions  into  words,  to  give,  as  it  were, 
the  literary  equivalent  for  the  imaginative  and  men- 
tal effect.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to  develop  what 
has  been  called  the  art-literature  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  that  form  of  literature  which  has  found  in 
Mr.  Ruskin  and  Mr.  Browning  its  two  most  perfect 
exponents.  His  description  of  Lancret's  Repas 
Italien,  in  which  "  a  dark-haired  girl,  '  amorous  of 
mischief,'  lies  on  the  daisy-powdered  grass,"  is  in 
some  respects  very  charming.      Here  is  his  account 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  73 

of   "The   Crucifixion,"   by   Rembrandt.     It  is  ex- 
tremely characteristic  of  his  style:  — 

"  Darkness — sooty,  portentous  darkness — shrouds  the 
whole  scene:  only  above  the  accursed  wood,  as  if  through  a 
horrid  rift  in  the  murky  ceiling,  a  rainy  deluge — '  sleety- 
flaw,  discoloured  water ' — streams  down  amain,  spreading  a 
grisly  spectral  light,  even  more  horrible  than  that  palpable 
night.  Already  the  Earth  pants  thick  and  fast !  the  dark- 
ened Cross  trembles  !  the  winds  are  dropt — the  air  is  stag- 
nant—a muttering  rumble  growls  underneath  their  feet,  and 
some  of  that  miserable  crowd  begin  to  fly  down  the  hill.  The 
horses  snuff  the  coming  terror,  and  become  unmanageable 
through  fear.  The  moment  rapidly  approaches  when,  nearly 
torn  asunder  by  His  own  weight,  fainting  with  loss  of  blood, 
which  now  runs  in  narrower  rivulets  from  His  slit  veins,  His 
temples  and  breast  drowned  in  sweat,  and  His  black  tongue 
parched  with  the  fiery  death-fever,  Jesus  cries,  'I  thirst.' 
The  deadly  vinegar  is  elevated  to  Him. 

"  His  head  sinks,  and  the  sacred  corpse  'swings  sense- 
less of  the  cross.'  A  sheet  of  vermilion  flame  shoots  sheer 
through  the  air  and  vanishes  ;  the  rocks  of  Carmel  and 
Lebanon  cleave  asunder ;  the  sea  rolls  on  high  from  the 
sands  its  black  weltering  waves.  Earth  yawns,  and  the 
graves  give  up  their  dwellers.  The  dead  and  the  living  are 
mingled  together  in  unnatural  conjunction  and  hurry  through 
the  holy  city.  New  prodigies  await  them  there.  The  veil 
of  the  temple — the  unpierceable  veil — is  rent  asunder  from 
top  to  bottom,  and  that  dreaded  recess  containing  the 
Hebrew  mysteries — the  fatal  ark  with  the  tables  and  seven- 
branched  candelabrum — is  disclosed  by  the  light  of  unearthly 
flames  to  the  God-deserted  multitude. 

"  Rembrandt  never  painted  this  sketch,  and  he  was  quite 
right.     It  would  have  lost  nearly  all  its  charms  in  losing  that 


74  INTENTIONS 

perplexing  veil  of  indistinctness  which  affords  such  ample 
range  wherein  the  doubting  imagination  may  speculate.  At 
present  it  is  like  a  thing  in  another  world.  A  dark  gulf  is 
betwixt  us.  It  is  not  tangible  by  the  body.  We  can  only 
approach  it  in  the  spirit." 

In  this  passage,  written,  the  author  tells  us,  "  in 
awe  and  reverence,"  there  is  much  that  is  terrible, 
and  very  much  that  is  quite  horrible,  but  it  is  not 
without  a  certain  crude  form  of  power,  or,  at  any 
rate,  a  certain  crude  violence  of  words,  a  quality 
which  this  age  should  highly  appreciate,  as  it  is  its 
chief  defect.  It  is  pleasanter,  however,  to  pass  to 
this  description  of  Giulio  Romano's  "  Cephalus  and 
Procris  "  :  — 

"We  should  read  Moschus's  lament  for  Bion,  the  sweet 
shepherd,  before  looking  at  this  picture,  or  study  the  picture 
as  a  preparation  for  the  lament.  We  have  nearly  the  same 
images  in  both.  For  either  victim  the  high  groves  and  forest 
dells  murmur ;  the  flowers  exhale  sad  perfume  from  their 
buds ;  the  nightingale  mourns  on  the  craggy  lands,  and  the 
swallow  in  the  long-winding  vales ;  '  the  satyrs,  too,  and 
fauns  dark- veiled  groan,'  and  the  fountain  nymphs  within  the 
wood  melt  into  tearful  waters.  The  sheep  and  goats  leave 
their  pasture,  and  oreads,  '  who  love  to  scale  the  most  inac- 
cessible tops  of  all  uprightest  rocks,'  hurry  down  from  the 
song  of  their  wind-courting  pines  ;  while  the  dryads  bend 
from  the  branches  of  the  meeting  trees,  and  the  rivers  moan 
for  white  Procris,  '  with  many-sobbing  streams,' 

"  Filling  the  far-seen  ocean  with  a  voice." 

The  golden  bees  are  silent  on  the  thymy  Hymettus;  and  the 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  75 

knelling  horn  of  Aurora's  love  no  more  shall  scatter  away 
the  cold  twilight  on  the  top  of  Hymettus.  The  foreground 
of  our  subject  is  a  grassy  sunburnt  bank,  broken  into  swells 
and  hollows  like  waves  (a  sort  of  land-breakers),  rendered 
more  uneven  by  many  foot-tripping  roots  and  stumps  of  trees 
stocked  untimely  by  the  axe,  which  are  again  throwing  out 
light  green  shoots.  This  bank  rises  rather  suddenly  on  the 
right  to  a  clustering  grove,  penetrable  to  no  star,  at  the  en- 
trance of  which  sits  the  stunned  Thessalian  king,  holding  be- 
tween his  knees  that  ivory-bright  body  which  was,  but  an 
instant  agone,  parting  the  rough  boughs  with  her  smooth 
forehead,  and  treading  alike  on  thorns  and  flowers  with 
jealousy-stung  foot — now  helpless,  heavy,  void  of  all  mo- 
tion, save  when  the  breeze  lifts  her  thick  hair  in  mockery. 

"From  between  the  closely-neighboured  boles  astonished 
nymphs  press  forward  with  loud  cries — 

"And    deerskin-vested     satyrs,    crowned    with    ivy    twists, 
advance ; 
And  put  strange  pity  in  their  horned  countenance." 

"  Laelaps  lies  beneath,  and  shows  by  his  panting  the  rapid 
pace  of  death.  On  the  other  side  of  the  group,  Virtuous 
Love  with  'vans  dejected'  holds  forth  the  arrow  to  an  ap- 
proaching troop  of  sylvan  people,  fauns,  rams,  goats,  satyrs, 
and  satyr-mothers,  pressing  their  children  tighter  with  their 
fearful  hands,  who  hurry  along  from  the  left  in  a  sunken 
path  between  the  foreground  and  a  rocky  wall,  on  whose 
lowest  ridge  a  brook-guardian  pours  from  her  urn  her  grief- 
telling  waters.  Above  and  more  remote  than  the  Ephidryad, 
another  female,  rending  her  locks,  appears  among  the  vine- 
festooned  pillars  of  an  unshorn  grove.  The  centre  of  the 
picture  is  filled  by  shady  meadows,  sinking  down  to  a  river- 
mouth  ;  beyond  is  '  the  vast  strength  of  the  ocean  stream,' 
from  whose  floor  the  extinguisher  of  stars,  rosy  Aurora,  drives 


76  INTENTIONS 

furiously  up  her  brine- washed  steeds  to  behold  the  death- 
pangs  of  her  rival." 

Were  this  description  carefully  rewritten,  it  would 
be  quite  admirable.  The  conception  of  making  a 
prose-poem  out  of  paint  is  excellent.  Much  of  the 
best  modern  literature  springs  from  the  same  aim. 
In  a  very  ugly  and  sensible  age,  the  arts  borrow,  not 
from  life,  but  from  each  other. 

His  sympathies,  too,  were  wonderfully  varied.  In 
everything  connected  with  the  stage,  for  instance,  he 
was  always  extremely  interested,  and  strongly  up- 
held the  necessity  for  archaeological  accuracy  in 
costume  and  scene-painting.  "  In  art,"  he  says  in 
one  of  his  essays,  "  whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all 
is  worth  doing  well ;  "  and  he  points  out  that  once 
we  allow  the  intrusion  of  anachronisms,  it  becomes 
difficult  to  say  where  the  line  is  to  be  drawn.  In 
literature,  again,  like  Lord  Beaconsfield  on  a  famous 
occasion,  he  was  "on  the  side  of  the  angels."  He 
was  one  of  the  first  to  admire  Keats  and  Shelley — 
"the  tremulously-sensitive  and  poetical  Shelley," 
as  he  calls  him.  His  admiration  for  Wordsworth 
was  sincere  and  profound.  He  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated William  Blake.  One  of  the  best  copies  of 
the  "  Songs  of  Innocence  and  Experience  "  that  is 
now  in  existence  was  wrought  specially  for  him. 
He   loved  Alain  Chartier,   and    Ronsard,  and  the 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  JJ 

Elizabethan  dramatists,  and  Chaucer  and  Chapman, 
and  Petrarch.  And  to  him  all  the  arts  were  one. 
"  Our  critics,"  he  remarks  with  much  wisdom,  "  seem 
hardly  aware  of  the  identity  of  the  primal  seeds  of 
poetry  and  painting,  nor  that  any  true  advancement 
in  the  serious  study  of  one  art  cogenerates  a  pro- 
portionate perfection  in  the  other;"  and  he  says 
elsewhere  that  if  a  man  who  does  not  admire  Michael 
Angelo  talks  of  his  love  for  Milton,  he  is  deceiving 
either  himself  or  his  listeners.  To  his  fellow-contrib- 
utors in  the  London  Magazine  he  was  always  most 
generous,  and  praises  Barry  Cornwall,  Allan  Cun- 
ningham, Hazlitt,  Elton  and  Leigh  Hunt  without 
anything  of  the  malice  of  a  friend.  Some  of  his 
sketches  of  Charles  Lamb  are  admirable  in  their 
way,  and,  with  the  art  of  the  true  comedian,  borrow 
their  style  from  their  subject :  — 

"What  can  I  say  of  thee  more  than  all  know?  that  thou 
hadst  the  gaiety  of  a  boy  with  the  knowledge  of  a  man  :  as 
gentle  a  heart  as  ever  sent  tears  to  the  eyes. 

"  How  wittily  would  he  mistake  your  meaning,  and  put  in 
a  conceit  most  seasonably  out  of  season.  His  talk  without 
affectation  was  compressed,  like  his  beloved  Elizabethans,  even 
unto  obscurity.  Like  grains  of  fine  gold,  his  sentences  would 
beat  out  into  whole  sheets.  He  had  small  mercy  on  spurious 
fame,  and  a  caustic  observation  on  the  fashion  for  men  of 
ge?iius  was  a  standing  dish.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  was  a 
'  bosom  cronie '  of  his ;  so  was  Burton,  and  old  Fuller.  In  his 
amorous  vein  he  dallied  with  that  peerless  Duchess  of  many- 


7&  INTENTIONS 

folio  odour;  and  with  the  heyday  comedies  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  he  induced  light  dreams.  He  would  deliver  critical 
touches  on  these,  like  one  inspired,  but  it  was  good  to  let  him 
choose  his  own  game ;  if  another  began  even  on  the  acknow- 
ledged pets  he  was  liable  to  interrupt,  or  rather  append,  in 
a  mode   difficult  to  define  whether  as  misapprehensive  or 

mischievous.     One  night  at  C 's,  the  above  dramatic 

partners  were  the  temporary  subject  of  chat.  Mr.  X.  com- 
mended the  passion  and  haughty  style  of  a  tragedy  (I  don't 
know  which  of  them),  but  was  instantly  taken  up  by  Elia,  who 
told  him  '  T/iat  was  nothing;  the  lyrics  were  the  high  things — 
the  lyrics  ! '  " 

One  side  of  his  literary  career  deserves  especial 
notice.  Modern  journalism  may  be  said  to  owe 
almost  as  much  to  him  as  to  any  man  of  the  early 
part  of  this  century.  He  was  the  pioneer  of  Asiatic 
prose,  and  delighted  in  pictorial  epithets  and  pom- 
pous exaggerations.  To  have  a  style  so  gorgeous 
that  it  conceals  the  subject  is  one  of  the  highest 
achievements  of  an  important  and  much  admired 
school  of  Fleet  Street  leader-writers,  and  this  school 
Janus  Weathercock  may  be  said  to  have  invented. 
He  also  saw  that  it  was  quite  easy  by  continued 
reiteration  to  make  the  public  interested  in  his  own 
personality,  and  in  his  purely  journalistic  articles 
this  extraordinary  young  man  tells  the  world  what 
he  had  for  dinner,  where  he  gets  his  clothes,  what 
wines  he  likes,  and  in  what  state  of  health  he  is, 
just  as  if   he  were  writing  weekly  notes  for  some 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  79 

popular  newspaper  of  our  own  time.  This  being 
the  least  valuable  side  of  his  work,  is  the  one  that 
has  had  the  most  obvious  influence.  A  publicist, 
now-a-days,  is  a  man  who  bores  the  community  with 
the  details  of  the  illegalities  of  his  private  life. 

Like  most  artificial  people  he  had  a  great  love  of 
nature.  "  I  hold  three  things  in  high  estimation," 
he  says  somewhere :  "  to  sit  lazily  on  an  eminence 
that  commands  a  rich  prospect ;  to  be  shadowed  by 
thick  trees  while  the  sun  shines  around  me ;  and  to 
enjoy  solitude  with  the  consciousness  of  neighbour- 
hood. The  country  gives  them  all  to  me."  He 
writes  about  his  wandering  over  fragrant  furze  and 
heath  repeating  Collin's  "  Ode  to  Evening,"  just  to 
catch  the  fine  quality  of  the  moment ;  about  smother- 
ing his  face  "  in  a  watery  bed  of  cowslips,  wet  with 
May  dews  " ;  and  about  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the 
sweet-breathed  kine  "  pass  slowly  homeward  through 
the  twilight,"  and  hearing  "  the  distant  clank  of  the 
sheep-bell."  One  phrase  of  his,  "the  polyanthus 
glowed  in  its  cold  bed  of  earth,  like  a  solitary  picture 
of  Giorgione  on  a  dark  oaken  panel,"  is  curiously 
characteristic  of  his  temperament,  and  this  passage 
is  rather  pretty  in  its  way — 

"The  short  tender  grass  was  covered  with  marguerites — 
'such  that  men  called  daisies  in  our  town' — thick  as  stars  on 
a  summer's  night.     The  harsh  caw  of  the  busy  rooks  came 


80  INTENTIONS 

pleasantly  mellowed  from  a  high  dusky  grove  of  elms  at  some 
distance  off,  and  at  intervals  was  heard  the  voice  of  a  boy  scaring 
away  the  birds  from  the  newly-sown  seeds.  The  blue  depths 
were  the  colour  of  the  darkest  ultramarine;  not  a  cloud 
streaked  the  calm  aether ;  only  round  the  horizon's  edge 
streamed  a  light,  warm  film  of  misty  vapour,  against  which 
the  near  village  with  its  ancient  stone  church  showed  sharply 
out  with  blinding  whiteness.  I  thought  of  Wordsworth's 
'  Lines  written  in  March.'  " 

However,  we  must  not  forget  that  the  cultivated 
young  man  who  penned  these  lines,  and  who  was  so 
susceptible  to  Wordsworthian  influences,  was  also,  as 
I  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  memoir,  one  of  the 
most  subtle  and  secret  poisoners  of  this  or  any  age. 
How  he  first  became  fascinated  by  this  strange  sin 
he  does  not  tell  us,  and  the  diary  in  which  he  care- 
fully noted  the  results  of  his  terrible  experiments  and 
the  methods  that  he  adopted,  has  unfortunately  been 
lost  to  us.  Even  in  later  days,  too,  he  was  always 
reticent  on  the  matter,  and  preferred  to  speak  about 
"The  Excursion,"  and  the  "  Poems  founded  on  the 
Affections."  There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  the 
poison  that  he  used  was  strychnine.  In  one  of  the 
beautiful  rings  of  which  he  was  so  proud,  and  which 
served  to  show  off  the  fine  modelling  of  his  delicate 
ivory  hands,  he  used  to  carry  crystals  of  the  Indian 
nux  vomica,  a  poison,  one  of  his  biographers  tells 
us,    "  nearly   tasteless,    difficult   of    discovery,   and 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  8l 

capable  of  almost  infinite  dilution."  His  murders, 
says  De  Quincey,  were  more  than  were  ever  made 
known  judicially.  This  is  no  doubt  so,  and  some  of 
them  are  worthy  of  mention.  His  first  victim  was 
his  uncle,  Mr.  Thomas  Griffiths.  He  poisoned  him  in 
1829  to  gain  possession  of  Linden  House,  a  place  to 
which  he  had  always  been  very  much  attached.  In 
the  August  of  the  next  year  he  poisoned  Mrs.  Aber- 
crombie,  his  wife's  mother,  and  in  the  following  De- 
cember he  poisoned  the  lovely  Helen  Abercrombie, 
his  sister-in-law.  Why  he  murdered  Mrs.  Abercrom- 
bie is  not  ascertained.  It  may  have  been  for  a  caprice, 
or  to  quicken  some  hideous  sense  of  power  that  was 
in  him,  or  because  she  suspected  something,  or  for  no 
reason.  But  the  murder  of  Helen  Abercrombie  was 
carried  out  by  himself  and  his  wife  for  the  sake  of  a 
sum  of  about  18,000/.  for  which  they  had  insured  her 
life  in  various  offices.  The  circumstances  were  as  fol- 
lows. On  the  1 2th  of  December,  he  and  his  wife 
and  child  came  up  to  London  from  Linden  House, 
and  took  lodgings  at  No.  12,  Conduit  Street,  Regent 
Street.  With  them  were  the  two  sisters,  Helen  and 
Madeleine  Abercrombie.  On  the  evening  of  the  14th 
they  all  went  to  the  play,  and  at  supper  that  night 
Helen  sickened.  The  next  day  she  was  extremely 
ill,  and  Dr.  Locock,  of  Hanover  Square,  was  called 
in  to  attend  her.     She  lived  till  Monday,  the  20th, 


82  INTENTIONS 

when,  after  the  doctor's  morning  visit,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wainewright,  brought  her  some  poisoned  jelly,  and 
then  went  out  for  a  walk.  When  they  returned 
Helen  Abercrombie  was  dead.  She  was  about 
twenty  years  of  age,  a  tall  graceful  girl  with  fair 
hair.  A  very  charming  red-chalk  drawing  of  her 
by  her  brother-in-law  is  still  in  existence,  and  shows 
how  much  his  style  as  an  artist  was  influenced  by 
Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  a  painter  for  whose  work  he 
had  always  entertained  a  great  admiration.  De 
Quincey  says  that  Mrs.  Wainewright  was  not  really 
privy  to  the  murder.  Let  us  hope  that  she  was  not. 
Sin  should  be  solitary,  and  have  no  accomplices. 

The  insurance  companies,  suspecting  the  real  facts 
of  the  case,  declined  to  pay  the  policy  on  the  techni- 
cal ground  of  misrepresentation  and  want  of  interest, 
and,  with  curious  courage,  the  poisoner  entered  an 
action  in  the  Court  of  Chancery  against  the  Im- 
perial, it  being  agreed  that  one  decision  should  gov-  , 
ern  all  the  cases.  The  trial,  however,  did  not  come 
on  for  five  years,  when,  after  one  disagreement,  a 
verdict  was  ultimately  given  in  the  companies' 
favour.  The  judge  on  the  occasion  was  Lord  Abin- 
ger.  Egomet  Bonmot  was  represented  by  Mr.  Erie 
and  Sir  William  Follet,  and  the  Attorney- General 
and  Sir  Frederick  Pollock  appeared  for  the  other 
side.     The  plaintiff,  unfortunately,  was  unable  to  be 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  83 

present  at  either  of  the  trials.  The  refusal  of  the 
companies  to  give  him  the  18,000/.  had  placed  him 
in  a  position  of  most  painful  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ment. Indeed,  a  few  months  after  the  murder  of 
Helen  Abercrombie,  he  had  been  actually  arrested 
for  debt  in  the  streets  of  London  while  he  was  sere- 
nading the  pretty  daughter  of  one  of  his  friends. 
This  difficulty  was  got  over  at  the  time,  but  shortly 
afterwards  he  thought  it  better  to  go  abroad  till  he 
could  come  to  some  practical  arrangement  with  his 
creditors.  He  accordingly  went  to  Boulogne  on  a 
visit  to  the  father  of  the  young  lady  in  question,  and 
while  he  was  there  induced  him  to  insure  his  life  with 
the  Pelican  Company  for  3000/.  As  soon  as  the  nec- 
essary formalities  had  been  gone  through  and  the 
policy  executed,  he  dropped  some  crystals  of  strych- 
nine into  his  coffee  as  they  sat  together  one  evening 
after  dinner.  He  himself  did  not  gain  any  monetary 
advantage  by  doing  this.  His  aim  was  simply  to  re- 
venge himself  on  the  first  office  that  had  refused  to 
pay  him  the  price  of  his  sin.  His  friend  died  the 
next  day  in  his  presence,  and  he  left  Boulogne  at 
once  for  a  sketching  tour  through  the  most  pictur- 
esque parts  of  Brittany,  and  was  for  some  time  the 
guest  of  an  old  French  gentleman,  who  had  a  beauti- 
ful country  house  at  St.  Omer.  From  this  he  moved 
to  Paris,  where  he  remained  for  several  years,  living 


84  INTENTIONS 

in  luxury,  some  say,  while  others  talk  of  his  "  skulk- 
ing with  poison  in  his  pockets,  and  being  dreaded 
by  all  who  knew  him."  In  1837  he  returned  to 
England  privately.  Some  strange  mad  fascination 
brought  him  back.  He  followed  a  woman  whom  he 
loved. 

It  was  the  month  of  June,  and  he  was  staying  at 
one  of  the  hotels  in  Covent  Garden.  His  sitting 
room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  he  prudently  kept 
the  blinds  down  for  fear  of  being  seen.  Thirteen 
years  before,  when  he  was  making  his  fine  collection 
of  majolica  and  Marc  Antonios,  he  had  forged  the 
names  of  his  trustees  to  a  power  of  attorney,  which 
enabled  him  to  get  possession  of  some  of  the  money 
which  he  had  inherited  from  his  mother,  and  had 
brought  into  marriage  settlement.  He  knew  that 
this  forgery  had  been  discovered,  and  that  by  return- 
ing to  England  he  was  imperilling  his  life.  Yet  he 
returned.  Should  one  wonder?  It  was  said  that 
the  woman  was  very  beautiful.  Besides,  she  did 
not  love  him. 

It  was  by  a  mere  accident  that  he  was  discovered. 
A  noise  in  the  street  attracted  his  attention,  and,  in 
his  artistic  interest  in  modern  life,  he  pushed  aside 
the  blind  for  a  moment.  Some  one  outside  called 
out  "That's  Wainewright,  the  Bank-forger."  It 
was  Forrester,  the  Bow  Street  runner. 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  85 

On  the  5th  of  July  he  was  brought  up  at  the  Old 
Bailey.  The  following  report  of  the  proceedings 
appeared  in  the  Times:  — 

"Before  Mr.  Justice  Vaughan  and  Mr.  Baron  Alderson, 
Thomas  Griffiths  Wainewright,  aged  forty-two,  a  man  of 
gentlemanly  appearance,  wearing  mustachios,  was  indicted  for 
forging  and  uttering  a  certain  power  of  attorney  for  2259/., 
with  intent  to  defraud  the  Governor  and  Company  of  the  Bank 
of  England. 

"  There  were  five  indictments  against  the  prisoner,  to  all  of 
which  he  pleaded  not  guilty,  when  he  was  arraigned  before 
Mr.  Serjeant  Arabin  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  On  being 
brought  before  the  judges,  however,  he  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  withdraw  the  former  plea,  and  then  pleaded  guilty  to  two 
of  the  indictments  which  were  not  of  a  capital  nature. 

"  The  counsel  for  the  Bank  having  explained  that  there 
were  three  other  indictments,  but  that  the  Bank  did  not  desire 
to  shed  blood,  the  plea  of  guilty  on  the  two  minor  charges  was 
recorded,  and  the  prisoner  at  the  close  of  the  session  sentenced 
by  the  Recorder  to  transportation  for  life." 

He  was  taken  back  to  Newgate,  preparatory  to  his 
removal  to  the  colonies.  In  a  fanciful  passage  in  one 
of  his  early  essays  he  had  fancied  himself  "  lying  in 
Horsemonger  Gaol  under  sentence  of  death  "  for 
having  been  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  of  steal- 
ing some  Marc  Antonios  from  the  British  Museum  in 
order  to  complete  his  collection.  The  sentence  now 
passed  on  him  was  to  a  man  of  his  culture  a  form  of 
death.  He  complained  bitterly  of  it  to  his  friends, 
and  pointed  out,  with  a  good  deal  of  reason,  some 


86  INTENTIONS 

people  may  fancy,  that  the  money  was  practically  his 
own,  having  come  to  him  from  his  mother,  and  that 
the  forgery,  such  as  it  was,  had  been  committed 
thirteen  years  before,  which  to  use  his  own  phrase, 
was  at  least  a  circonstance  attennante.  The  per- 
manence of  personality  is  a  very  subtle  metaphysical 
problem,  and  certainly  the  English  law  solves  the 
question  in  an  extremely  rough-and-ready  manner. 
There  is,  however,  something  dramatic  in  the  fact 
that  this  heavy  punishment  was  inflicted  on  him  for 
what,  if  we  remember  his  fatal  influence  on  the  prose 
of  modern  journalism,  was  certainly  not  the  worst 
of  all  his  sins. 

While  he  was  in  gaol,  Dickens,  Macready,  and 
Hablot  Browne  came  across  him  by  chance.  They 
had  been  going  over  the  prisons  of  London,  searching 
for  artistic  effects,  and  in  Newgate  they  suddenly 
caught  sight  of  Wainewright.  He  met  them  with  a 
defiant  stare,  Forster  tells  us,  but  Macready  was  "  hor- 
rified to  recognize  a  man  familiarly  known  to  him 
in  former  years,  and  at  whose  table  he  had  dined." 

Others  had  more  curiosity,  and  his  cell  was  for 
some  time  a  kind  of  fashionable  lounge.  Many  men 
of  letters  went  down  to  visit  their  old  literary 
comrade.  But  he  was  no  longer  the  kind  light- 
hearted  Janus  whom  Charles  Lamb  admired.  He 
seems  to  have  grown  quite  cynical. 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  87 

To  the  agent  of  an  insurance  company  who  was 
visiting  him  one  afternoon,  and  thought  he  would 
improve  the  occasion  by  pointing  out  that,  after  all 
crime  was  a  bad  speculation,  he  replied :  "  Sir,  you 
City  men  enter  on  your  speculations  and  take  the 
chances  of  them.  Some  of  your  speculations  suc- 
ceed, some  fail.  Mine  happen  to  have  failed,  yours 
happen  to  have  succeeded.  That  is  the  only  differ- 
ence, sir,  between  my  visitor  and  me.  But,  sir,  I 
will  tell  you  one  thing  in  which  I  have  succeeded,  to 
the  last.  I  have  been  determined  through  life  to  hold 
the  position  of  a  gentleman.  I  have  always  done 
so.  I  do  so  still.  It  is  the  custom  of  this  place 
that  each  of  the  inmates  of  a  cell  shall  take  his 
morning's  turn  of  sweeping  it  out.  I  occupy  a  cell 
with  a  bricklayer  and  a  sweep,  but  they  never  offer 
me  the  broom!"  When  a  friend  reproached  him 
with  the  murder  of  Helen  Abercrombie  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said,  "Yes;  it  was  a  dreadful 
thing  to  do,  but  she  had  very  thick  ankles." 

From  Newgate  he  was  brought  to  the  hulks  at 
Portsmouth,  and  sent  from  there  in  the  Susan  to 
Van  Diemen's  Land  along  with  three  hundred  other 
convicts.  The  voyage  seems  to  have  been  most 
distasteful  to  him,  and  in  a  letter  written  to  a  friend 
he  spoke  bitterly  about  the  ignominy  of  "  the  com- 
panion  of  poets  and   artists "   being  compelled  to 


88  INTENTIONS 

associate  with  "country  bumpkins."  The  phrase 
that  he  applies  to  his  companions  need  not  surprise 
us.  Crime  in  England  is  rarely  the  result  of  sin. 
It  is  nearly  always  the  result  of  starvation.  There 
was  probably  no  one  on  board  in  whom  he  would 
have  found  a  sympathetic  listener,  or  even  a  psycho- 
logically interesting  nature. 

His  love  of  art,  however,  never  deserted  him.  At 
Hobart  Town  he  started  a  studio,  and  returned  to 
sketching  and  portrait-painting,  and  his  conversa- 
tion and  manners  seem  not  to  have  lost  their  charm. 
Nor  did  he  give  up  his  habit  of  poisoning,  and  there 
are  two  cases  on  record  in  which  he  tried  to  make 
away  with  people  who  had  offended  him.  But  his 
hand  seems  to  have  lost  its  cunning.  Both  of  his 
attempts  were  complete  failures,  and  in  1844,  being 
thoroughly  dissatisfied  with  Tasmanian  society,  he 
presented  a  memorial  to  the  governor  of  the  settle- 
ment, Sir  John  Eardley  Wilmot,  praying  for  a 
ticket-of-leave.  In  it  he  speaks  of  himself  as  be- 
ing "  tormented  by  ideas  struggling  for  outward 
form  and  realization,  barred  up  from  increase  of 
knowledge,  and  deprived  of  the  exercise  of  profit- 
able or  even  of  decorous  speech."  His  request, 
however,  was  refused,  and  the  associate  of  Cole- 
ridge consoled  himself  by  making  those  marvellous 
Paradis  Artijiciels  whose  secret  is  only  known  to 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  89 

the  eaters  of  opium.  In  1852  he  died  of  apoplexy, 
his  sole  living  companion  being  a  cat,  for  which  he 
had  evinced  an  extraordinary  affection. 

His  crimes  seem  to  have  had  an  important  effect 
upon  his  art.  They  gave  a  strong  personality  to 
his  style,  a  quality  that  his  early  work  certainly 
lacked.  In  a  note  to  the  Life  of  Dickens,  Forster 
mentions  that  in  1847  Lady  Blessington  received 
from  her  brother,  Major  Power,  who  held  a  military 
appointmeut  at  Hobart  Town,  an  oil  portrait  of  a 
young  lady  from  his  clever  brush ;  and  it  is  said 
that  "  he  had  contrived  to  put  the  expression  of  his 
own  wickedness  into  the  portrait  of  a  nice,  kind- 
hearted  girl."  M.  Zola,  in  one  of  his  novels,  tells 
us  of  a  young  man  who,  having  committed  a  mur- 
der, takes  to  art,  and  paints  greenish  impressionist 
portraits  of  perfectly  respectable  people,  all  of 
which  bear  a  curious  resemblance  to  his  victim. 
The  development  of  Mr.  Wainewright's  style  seems 
to  me  far  more  subtle  and  suggestive.  One  can 
fancy  an  intense  personality  being  created  out  of 
sin. 

This  strange  and  fascinating  figure  that  for  a  few 
years  dazzled  literary  London,  and  made  so  brilliant 
a  debut  in  life  and  letters,  is  undoubtedly  a  most  in- 
teresting study.  Mr.  W.  Carew  Hazlitt,  his  latest 
biographer,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  many  of  the 


90  INTENTIONS 

facts  contained  in  this  memoir,  and  whose  little 
book  is,  indeed,  quite  invaluable  in  its  way,  is  of 
opinion  that  his  love  of  art  and  nature  was  a  mere 
pretence  and  assumption,  and  others  have  denied  to 
him  all  literary  power.  This  seems  to  me  a  shallow, 
or  at  least  a  mistaken,  view.  The  fact  of  a  man  be- 
ing a  poisoner  is  nothing  against  his  prose.  The 
domestic  virtues  are  not  the  true  basis  of  art, 
though  they  may  serve  as  an  excellent  advertise- 
ment for  second-rate  artists.  It  is  possible  that  De 
Quincey  exaggerated  his  critical  powers,  and  I  can- 
not help  saying  again  that  there  is  much  in  his 
published  works  that  is  too  familiar,  too  common, 
too  journalistic,  in  the  bad  sense  of  that  bad  word. 
Here  and  there  he  is  distinctly  vulgar  in  expression, 
and  he  is  always  lacking  in  the  self-restraint  of  the 
true  artist.  But  for  some  of  his  faults  we  must 
blame  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  and,  after  all, 
prose  that  Charles  Lamb  thought  "  capital  "  has  no 
small  historic  interest.  That  he  had  a  sincere  love 
of  art  and  nature  seems  to  me  quite  certain.  There 
is  no  essential  incongruity  between  crime  and  cul- 
ture. We  cannot  re-write  the  whole  of  history  for 
the  purpose  of  gratifying  our  moral  sense  of  what 
should  be. 

Of  course,  he  is  far  too  close  to  our  own  time  for 
us  to  be  able  to  form  any  purely  artistic  judgment 


PEN,    PENCIL,    AND    POISON  9 1 

about  him.  It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  a  strong 
prejudice  against  a  man  who  might  have  poisoned 
Lord  Tennyson,  or  Mr.  Gladstone,  or  the  Master  of 
Balliol.  But  had  the  man  worn  a  costume  and 
spoken  a  language  different  from  our  own,  had  he 
lived  in  imperial  Rome,  or  at  the  time  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  or  in  Spain  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
or  in  any  land  or  any  century  but  this  century  and 
this  land,  we  would  be  quite  able  to  arrive  at  a 
perfectly  unprejudiced  estimate  of  his  position  and 
value.  I  know  that  there  are  many  historians,  or 
at  least  writers  on  historical  subjects,  who  still  think 
it  necessary  to  apply  moral  judgments  to  his- 
tory, and  who  distribute  their  praise  or  blame  with 
the  solemn  complacency  of  a  successful  school- 
master. This,  however,  is  a  foolish  habit,  and 
merely  shows  that  the  moral  instinct  can  be 
brought  to  such  a  pitch  of.  perfection  that  it  will 
make  its  appearance  wherever  it  is  not  required. 
Nobody  with  the  true  historical  sense  ever  dreams 
of  blaming  Nero,  or  scolding  Tiberius  or  censuring 
Csesar  Borgia.  These  personages  have  become  like 
the  puppets  of  a  play.  They  may  fill  us  with 
terror,  or  horror,  or  wonder,  but  they  do  not  harm 
us.  They  are  not  in  immediate  relation  to  us.  We 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  them.  They  have  passed 
into  the   sphere  of  art  and  science,  and  neither  art 


92  INTENTIONS 

nor  science  knows  anything  of  moral  approval  or 
disapproval.  And  so  it  may  be  some  day  with 
Charles  Lamb's  friend.  At  present  I  feel  that  he 
is  just  a  little  too  modern  to  be  treated  in  that  fine 
spirit  of  disinterested  curiosity  to  which  we  owe  so 
many  charming  studies  of  the  great  criminals  of  the 
Italian  Renaissance  from  the  pens  of  Mr.  John  Add- 
ington  Symonds,  Miss  A.  Mary  F.  Robinson,  Miss 
Vernon  Lee,  and  other  distinguished  writers.  How- 
ever, Art  has  not  forgotten  him.  He  is  the  hero  of 
Dickens's  Hunted  Down,  the  Varney  of  Bulwer's 
Lucretia;  and  it  is  gratifying  to  note  that  fiction 
has  paid  some  homage  to  one  who  was  so  power- 
ful with  "  pen,  pencil,  and  poison."  To  be  sugges- 
tive for  fiction  is  to  be  of  more  importance  than  a 
fact. 


THE    CRITIC    AS    ARTIST 

WITH  SOME  REMARKS  UPON  THE 
IMPORTANCE  OF  DOING  NOTHING 


HA  DIALOGUE.  Part  I. 
Persons :  Gilbert  and  Ernest. 
Scene :  the  library  of  a  house 
in  Piccadilly ,  overlooking  the 
Green  Park. 


THE  CRITIC   AS  ARTIST 

Gilbert  {at  the  Piano).  My  dear  Ernest,  what  are 
you  laughing  at? 

Ernest  {looking  tip).  At  a  capital  story  that  I  have 
just  come  across  in  this  volume  of  Reminiscences  that 
I  have  found  on  your  table. 

Gilbert.  What  is  the  book  ?  Ah !  I  see.  I  have 
not  read  it  yet.      Is  it  good? 

Ernest.  Well,  while  you  have  been  playing,  I  have 
been  turning  over  the  pages  with  some  amusement, 
though,  as  a  rule,  I  dislike  modern  memoirs.  They 
are  generally  written  by  people  who  have  either 
entirely  lost  their  memories,  or  have  never  done  any- 
thing worth  remembering;  which,  however,  is,  no 
doubt,  the  true  explanation  of  their  popularity,  as 
the  English  public  always  feels  perfectly  at  its  ease 
when  a  mediocrity  is  talking  to  it. 

Gilbert.  Yes :  the  public  is  wonderfully  tolerant. 
It  forgives  everything  except  genius.     But  I  must 

95 


96  INTENTIONS 

confess  that  I  like  all  memoirs.  I  like  them  for  their 
form,  just  as  much  as  for  their  matter.  In  literature 
mere  egotism  is  delightful.  It  is  what  fascinates  us 
in  the  letters  of  personalities  so  different  as  Cicero 
and  Balzac,  Flaubert  and  Berlioz,  Byron  and  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne.  Whenever  we  come  across  it,  and, 
strangely  enough,  it  is  rather  rare,  we  cannot  but  wel- 
come it,  and  do  not  easily  forget  it.  Humanity  will 
always  love  Rousseau  for  having  confessed  his  sins, 
not  to  a  priest,  but  to  the  world,  and  the  couchant 
nymphs  that  Cellini  wrought  in  bronze  for  the  castle 
of  King  Francis,  the  green  and  gold  Perseus,  even, 
that  in  the  open  Loggia  at  Florence  shows  the  moon 
the  dead  terror  that  once  turned  life  to  stone,  have 
not  given  it  more  pleasure  than  has  that  autobi- 
ography in  which  the  supreme  scoundrel  of  the  Re- 
naissance relates  the  story  of  his  splendour  and  his 
shame.  The  opinions,  the  character,  the  achieve- 
ments of  the  man,  matter  very  little.  He  may  be  a 
sceptic  like  the  gentle  Sieur  de  Montaigne,  or  a  saint 
like  the  bitter  son  of  Monica,  but  when  he  tells  us 
his  own  secrets  he  can  always  charm  our  ears  to  lis- 
tening and  our  lips  to  silence.  The  mode  of  thought 
that  Cardinal  Newman  represented — if  that  can  be 
called  a  mode  of  thought  which  seeks  to  solve  intel- 
lectual problems  by  a  denial  of  the  supremacy  of 
the  intellect — may  not,  cannot,  I  think,  survive.   But 


THE   CRITIC   AS    ARTIST  97 

the  world  will  never  weary  of  watching  that  troubled 
soul  in  its  progress  from  darkness  to  darkness.  The 
lonely  church  at  Littlemore,  where  "  the  breath  of 
the  morning  is  damp,  and  worshippers  are  few,"  will 
always  be  dear  to  it,  and  whenever  men  see  the  yel- 
low snapdragon  blossoming  on  the  wall  of  Trinity 
they  will  think  of  that  gracious  undergraduate  who 
saw  in  the  flower's  sure  recurrence  a  prophecy  that 
he  would  abide  for  ever  with  the  Benign  Mother  of 
his  days — a  prophecy  that  Faith,  in  her  wisdom  or 
her  folly,  suffered  not  to  be  fulfilled.  Yes ;  autobi- 
ography is  irresistible.  Poor,  silly,  conceited  Mr. 
Secretary  Pepys  has  chattered  his  way  into  the  circle 
of  the  Immortals,  and,  conscious  that  indiscretion 
is  the  better  part  of  valour,  bustles  about  among 
them  in  that  "  shaggy  purple  gown  with  gold  but- 
tons and  looped  lace  "  which  he  is  so  fond  of  describ- 
ing to  us,  perfectly  at  his  ease,  and  prattling,  to  his 
own  and  our  infinite  pleasure,  of  the  Indian  blue  pet- 
ticoat that  he  bought  for  his  wife,  of  the  "  good 
hog's  harslet,"  and  the  "  pleasant  French  fricassee  of 
veal  "  that  he  loved  to  eat,  of  his  game  of  bowls  with 
Will  Joyce,  and  his  "  gadding  after  beauties,"  and 
his  reciting  of  Hamlet  on  a  Sunday,  and  his  playing 
of  the  viol  on  week  days,  and  other  wicked  or  trivial 
things.  Even  in  actual  life  egotism  is  not  without 
its  attractions.     When  people  talk  to  us  about  others 


98  INTENTIONS 

they  are  usually  dull.  When  they  talk  to  us  about 
themselves  they  are  nearly  always  interesting,  and 
if  one  could  shut  them  up,  when  they  become  weari- 
some, as  easily  as  one  can  shut  up  a  book  of  which 
one  has  grown  weary,  they  would  be  perfect  abso- 
lutely. 

Ernest.  There  is  much  virtue  in  that  If,  as  Touch- 
stone would  say.  But  do  you  seriously  propose  that 
every  man  should  become  his  own  Boswell?  What 
would  become  of  our  industrious  compilers  of  Lives 
and  Recollections  in  that  case? 

Gilbert.  What  has  become  of  them  ?  They  are 
the  pest  of  the  age,  nothing  more  and  nothing  less. 
Every  great  man  nowadays  has  his  disciples,  and 
it  is  always  Judas  who  writes  the  biography. 

Ernest.  My  dear  fellow! 

Gilbert.  I  am  afraid  it  is  true.  Formerly  we  used 
to  canonize  our  heroes.  The  modern  method  is  to 
vulgarize  them.  Cheap  editions  of  great  books  may 
be  delightful,  but  cheap  editions  of  great  men  are 
absolutely  detestable. 

Ernest.  May  I  ask,  Gilbert,  to  whom  you  allude  ? 

Gilbert.  Oh!  to  all  our  second-rate  litterateurs. 
We  are  overrun  by  a  set  of  people  who,  when  poet  or 
painter  passes  away,  arrive  at  the  house  along  with 
the  undertaker,  and  forget  that  their  one  duty  is  to 
behave  as  mutes.     But  we  won't  talk  about  them. 


THE    CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  99 

They  are  the  mere  body-snatchers  of  literature.  The 
dust  is  given  to  one,  and  the  ashes  to  another,  and 
the  soul  is  out  of  their  reach.  And  now,  let  me  play 
Chopin  to  you,  or  Dvorak?  Shall  I  play  you  a 
fantasy  by  Dvorak  ?  He  writes  passionate,  curiously- 
coloured  things. 

Ernest.  No;  I  don't  want  music  just  at  present. 
It  is  far  too  indefinite.  Besides,  I  took  the  Baroness 
Bernstein  down  to  dinner  last  night,  and,  though 
absolutely  charming  in  every  other  respect,  she  in- 
sisted on  discussing  music  as  if  it  were  actually 
written  in  the  German  language.  Now,  whatever 
music  sounds  like,  I  am  glad  to  say  that  it  does  not 
sound  in  the  smallest  degree  like  German.  There 
are  forms  of  patriotism  that  are  really  quite  de- 
grading. No;  Gilbert,  don't  play  any  more.  Turn 
round  and  talk  to  me.  Talk  to  me  till  the  white- 
horned  day  comes  into  the  room.  There  is  some- 
thing in  your  voice  that  is  wonderful. 

Gilbert  [rising  from  the  piano).  I  am  not  in  a 
mood  for  talking  to-night.  How  horrid  of  you  to 
smile?  I  really  am  not.  Where  are  the  cigarettes? 
Thanks.  How  exquisite  these  single  daffodils  are! 
They  seem  to  be  made  of  amber  and  cool  ivory. 
They  are  like  Greek  things  of  the  best  period.  What 
was  the  story  in  the  confessions  of  the  remorseful 
Academician  that  made  you  laugh?     Tell  it  to  me. 


IOO  INTENTIONS 

After  playing  Chopin,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  weep- 
ing over  sins  that  I  had  never  committed,  and 
mourning  over  tragedies  that  were  not  my  own. 
Music  always  seems  to  me  to  produce  that  effect. 
It  creates  for  one  a  past  of  which  one  has  been 
ignorant,  and  fills  one  with  a  sense  of  sorrows  that 
have  been  hidden  from  one's  tears.  I  can  fancy  a 
man  who  had  led  a  perfectly  commonplace  life, 
hearing  by  chance  some  curious  piece  of  music,  and 
suddenly  discovering  that  his  soul,  without  his 
being  conscious  of  it,  had  passed  through  terrible 
experiences,  and  known  fearful  joys,  or  wild  roman- 
tic loves,  or  great  renunciations.  And  so,  tell  me 
this  story,  Ernest.     I  want  to  be  amused. 

Ernest.  Oh!  I  don't  know  that  it  is  of  any  im- 
portance. But  I  thought  it  a  really  admirable  illus- 
tration of  the  true  value  of  ordinary  art-criticism. 
It  seems  that  a  lady  once  gravely  asked  the 
remorseful  Academician,  as  you  call  him,  if  his 
celebrated  picture  of  "A  Spring-Day  at  Whiteley's," 
or  "Waiting  for  the  Last  Omnibus,"  or  some  subject 
of  that  kind,  was  all  painted  by  hand  ? 

Gilbert.  And  was  it? 

Ernest.  You  are  quite  incorrigible.  But,  seriously 
speaking,  what  is  the  use  of  art-criticism  ?  Why 
cannot  the  artist  be  left  alone,  to  create  a  new 
world  if  he  wishes  it,  or,  if  not,  to  shadow  forth  the 


THE    CRITIC   AS    ARTIST  101 

world  which  we  already  know,  and  of  which,  I  fancy, 
we  would  each  one  of  us  be  wearied  if  Art,  with  her 
fine  spirit  of  choice  and  delicate  instinct  of  selection, 
did  not,  as  it  were,  purify  it  for  us,  and  give  to  it  a 
momentary  perfection.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
imagination  spreads,  or  should  spread,  a  solitude 
around  it,  and  works  best  in  silence  and  in  isolation. 
Why  should  the  artist  be  troubled  by  the  shrill 
clamour  of  criticism  ?  Why  should  those  who  cannot 
create  take  upon  themselves  to  estimate  the  value 
of  creative  work  ?  What  can  they  know  about  it  ? 
If  a  man's  work  is  easy  to  understand,  an  explana- 
tion is  unnecessary.  .  .  . 

Gilbert.  And  if  his  work  is  incomprehensible,  an 
explanation  is  wicked. 

Ernest.  I  did  not  say  that. 

Gilbert.  Ah !  but  you  should  have.  Nowadays, 
we  have  so  few  mysteries  left  to  us  that  we  cannot 
afford  to  part  with  one  of  them.  The  members  of 
the  Browning  Society,  like  the  theologians  of  the 
Broad  Church  Party,  or  the  authors  of  Mr.  Walter 
Scott's  Great  Writers'  Series,  seem  to  me  to  spend 
their  time  in  trying  to  explain  their  divinity  away. 
Where  one  had  hoped  that  Browning  was  a  mystic, 
they  have  sought  to  show  that  he  was  simply  in- 
articulate. Where  one  had  fancied  that  he  had 
something  to  conceal,  they  have  proved  that  he  had 


102  INTENTIONS 

but  little  to  reveal.  But  I  speak  merely  of  his  in- 
coherent work.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  man  was 
great.  He  did  not  belong  to  the  Olympians,  and 
had  all  the  incompleteness  of  the  Titan.  He  did  not 
survey,  and  it  was  but  rarely  that  he  could  sing. 
His  work  is  marred  by  struggle,  violence  and  effort, 
and  he  passed  not  from  emotion  to  form,  but  from 
thought  to  chaos.  Still,  he  was  great.  He  has 
been  called  a  thinker,  and  was  certainly  a  man  who 
was  always  thinking,  and  always  thinking  aloud ; 
but  it  was  not  thought  that  fascinated  him,  but 
rather  the  processes  by  which  thought  moves.  It  was 
the  machine  he  loved,  not  what  the  machine  makes. 
The  method  by  which  the  fool  arrives  at  his  folly 
was  as  dear  to  him  as  the  ultimate  wisdom  of  the 
wise.  So  much,  indeed,  did  the  subtle  mechanism 
of  mind  fascinate  him  that  he  despised  language,  or 
looked  upon  it  as  an  incomplete  instrument  of  ex- 
pression. Rhyme,  that  exquisite  echo  which  in  the 
Muse's  hollow  hill  creates  and  answers  its  own 
voice ;  rhyme,  which  in  the  hands  of  the  real  artist 
becomes  not  merely  a  material  element  of  metrical 
beauty,  but  a  spiritual  element  of  thought  and  pas- 
sion also,  waking  a  new  mood,  it  may  be,  or  stirring 
a  fresh  train  of  ideas,  or  opening  by  mere  sweetness 
and  suggestion  of  sound  some  golden  door  at  which 
the  Imagination  itself  had  knocked  in  vain ;  rhyme, 


THE    CRITIC    AS   ARTIST  103 

which  can  turn  man's  utterance  to  the  speech  of 
gods ;  rhyme,  the  one  chord  we  have  added  to  the 
Greek  lyre,  became  in  Robert  Browning's  hands  a 
grotesque,  misshapen  thing,  which  made  him  at 
times  masquerade  in  poetry  as  a  low  comedian,  and 
ride  Pegasus  too  often  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 
There  are  moments  when  he  wounds  us  by  mon- 
strous music.  Nay,  if  he  can  only  get  his  music  by 
breaking  the  strings  of  his  lute,  he  breaks  them,  and 
they  snap  in  discord,  and  no  Athenian  tettix,  making 
melody  from  tremulous  wings,  lights  on  the  ivory 
horn  to  make  the  movement  perfect,  or  the  interval 
less  harsh.  Yet,  he  was  great:  and  though  he 
turned  language  into  ignoble  clay,  he  made  from  it 
men  and  women  that  live.  He  is  the  most  Shakes- 
perian  creature  since  Shakespeare.  If  Shakespeare 
could  sing  with  myriad  lips,  Browning  could  stam- 
mer through  a  thousand  mouths.  Even  now,  as  I 
am  speaking,  and  speaking  not  against  him  but  for 
him,  there  glides  through  the  room  the  pageant  of 
his  persons.  There,  creeps  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  with 
his  cheeks  still  burning  from  some  girl's  hot  kiss. 
There,  stands  dread  Saul  with  the  lordly  male- 
sapphires  gleaming  in  his  turban.  Mildred  Tresham 
is  there,  and  the  Spanish  monk,  yellow  with  hatred, 
and  Blougram,  and  Ben  Ezra,  and  the  Bishop  of 
St.  Praxed's.     The  spawn  of  Setebos  gibbers  in  the 


104  INTENTIONS 

corner,  and  Sebald,  hearing  Pippa  pass  by,  looks 
on  Ottima's  haggard  face,  and  loathes  her  and  his 
own  sin,  and  himself.  Pale  as  the  white  satin  of  his 
doublet,  the  melancholy  king  watches  with  dreamy 
treacherous  eyes  too  loyal  Strafford  pass  forth  to  his 
doom,  and  Andrea  shudders  as  he  hears  the  cousin's 
whistle  in  the  garden,  and  bids  his  perfect  wife  go 
down.  Yes,  Browning  was  great.  And  as  what  will 
he  be  remembered?  As  a  poet?  Ah,  not  as  a  poet! 
He  will  be  remembered  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  as  the 
most  supreme  writer  of  fiction,  it  may  be,  that  we 
have  ever  had.  His  sense  of  dramatic  situation  was 
unrivalled,  and,  if  he  could  not  answer  his  own  prob- 
lems, he  could  at  least  put  problems  forth,  and  what 
more  should  an  artist  do?  Considered  from  the 
point  of  view  of  a  creator  of  character  he  ranks  next 
to  him  who  made  Hamlet.  Had  he  been  articulate,  he 
might  have  sat  beside  him.  The  only  man  who  can 
touch  the  hem  of  his  garment  is  George  Meredith. 
Meredith  is  a  prose  Browning,  and  so  is  Browning. 
He  used  poetry  as  a  medium  for  writing  in  prose. 

Ernest.  There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  but 
there  is  not  everything  in  what  you  say.  In  many 
points  you  are  unjust. 

Gilbert.  It  is  difficult  not  to  be  unjust  to  what  one 
loves.  But  let  us  return  to  the  particular  point  at 
issue.     What  was  it  that  you  said  ? 


THE   CRITIC    AS    ARTIST  105 

Ernest.  Simply  this :  that  in  the  best  days  of  art 
there  were  no  art-critics. 

Gilbert.  I  seem  to  have  heard  that  observation 
before,  Ernest.  It  has  all  the  vitality  of  error  and 
all  the  tediousness  of  an  old  friend. 

Ernest.  It  is  true.  Yes :  there  is  no  use  your 
tossing  your  head  in  that  petulant  manner.  It  is 
quite  true.  In  the  best  days  of  art  there  were  no 
art-critics.  The  sculptor  hewed  from  the  marble 
block  the  great  white-limbed  Hermes  that  slept 
within  it.  The  waxers  and  gilders  of  images  gave 
tone  and  texture  to  the  statue,  and  the  world,  when 
it  saw  it,  worshipped  and  was  dumb.  He  poured 
the  glowing  bronze  into  the  mould  of  sand,  and  the 
river  of  red  metal  cooled  into  noble  curves  and  took 
the  impress  of  the  body  of  a  god.  With  enamel  or 
polished  jewels  he  gave  sight  to  the  sightless  eyes. 
The  hyacinth-like  curls  grew  crisp  beneath  his 
graver.  And  when,  in  some  dim  frescoed  fane, 
or  pillared  sunlit  portico,  the  child  of  Leto  stood 
upon  his  pedestal,  those  who  passed  by,  dj3pa>s 
(jouvovtsi;  Sid  XajucpOTdiTOo  aiGspoc,  became  conscious 
of  a  new  influence  that  had  come  across  their  lives, 
and  dreamily,  or  with  a  sense  of  strange  and  quick- 
ening joy,  went  to  their  homes  or  daily  labour,  or 
wandered,  it  may  be,  through  the  city  gates  to  that 
nymph-haunted    meadow   where    young    Phaedrus 


106  INTENTIONS 

bathed  his  feet,  and,  lying  there  on  the  soft  grass, 
beneath  the  tall  wind-whispering  planes  and  flower- 
ing agnus  castus,  began  to  think  of  the  wonder  of 
beauty,  and  grew  silent  with  unaccustomed  awe. 
In  those  days  the  artist  was  free.  From  the  river 
valley  he  took  the  fine  clay  in  his  fingers,  and  with 
a  little  tool  of  wood  or  bone,  fashioned  it  into  forms 
so  exquisite  that  the  people  gave  them  to  the  dead 
as  their  playthings,  and  we  find  them  still  in  the 
dusty  tombs  on  the  yellow  hillside  by  Tanagra, 
with  the  faint  gold  and  the  fading  crimson  still  lin- 
gering about  hair  and  lips  and  raiment.  On  a  wall 
of  fresh  plaster,  stained  with  bright  sandyx  or  mixed 
with  milk  and  saffron,  he  pictured  one  who  trod  with 
tired  feet  the  purple  white-starred  fields  of  asphodel, 
one  '  in  whose  eyelids  lay  the  whole  of  the  Trojan 
War,'  Polyxena,  the  daughter  of  Priam;  or  figured 
Odysseus,  the  wise  and  cunning,  bound  by  tight  cords 
to  the  mast-step,  that  he  might  listen  without  hurt  to 
the  singing  of  the  Sirens,  or  wandering  by  the  clear 
river  of  Acheron,  where  the  ghosts  of  fishes  flitted 
over  the  pebbly  bed ;  or  showed  the  Persian  in 
trews  and  mitre  flying  before  the  Greek  at  Marathon, 
or  the  galleys  clashing  their  beaks  of  brass  in  the 
little  Salaminian  bay.  He  drew  with  silver-point 
and  charcoal  upon  parchment  and  prepared  cedar. 
Upon  ivory  and  rose-coloured  terra-cottahe  painted 


THE    CRITIC    AS    ARTIST  107 

with  wax,  making  the  wax  fluid  with  juice  of  olives, 
and  with  heated  irons  making  it  firm.  Panel  and 
marble  and  linen  canvas  became  wonderful  as  his 
brush  swept  across  them ;  and  life,  seeing  her  own 
image,  was  still,  and  dared  not  speak.  All  life, 
indeed,  was  his,  from  the  merchants  seated  in  the 
market-place  to  the  cloaked  shepherd  lying  on  the 
hill ;  from  the  nymph  hidden  in  the  laurels  and  the 
faun  that  piped  at  noon,  to  the  king  whom,  in  long 
green-curtained  litter,  slaves  bore  upon  oil-bright 
shoulders,  and  fanned  with  peacock  fans.  Men  and 
women,  with  pleasure  or  sorrow  in  their  faces, 
passed  before  him.  He  watched  them,  and  their 
secret  became  his.  Through  form  and  colour  he  re- 
created a  world. 

All  subtle  arts  belonged  to  him  also.  He  held 
the  gem  against  the  revolving  disk,  and  the  amethyst 
became  the  purple  couch  for  Adonis,  and  across  the 
veined  sardonyx  sped  Artemis  with  her  hounds.  He 
beat  out  the  gold  into  roses,  and  strung  them  to- 
gether for  necklace  or  armlet.  He  beat  out  the  gold 
into  wreaths  for  the  conqueror's  helmet,  or  into 
palmates  for  the  Tyrian  robe,  or  into  masks  for  the 
royal  dead.  On  the  back  of  the  silver  mirror  he 
graved  Thetis  borne  by  her  Nereids,  or  love-sick 
Phaedra  with  her  nurse,  or  Persephone,  weary  of 
memory,  putting  poppies  in  her  hair.     The  potter 


108  INTENTIONS 

sat  in  his  shed,  and,  flower-like  from  the  silent 
wheel,  the  vase  rose  up  beneath  his  hands.  He 
decorated  the  base  and  stem  and  ears  with  pattern 
of  dainty  olive-leaf,  or  foliated  acanthus,  or  curved 
and  crested  wave.  Then  in  black  or  red  he  painted 
lads  wrestling,  or  in  the  race :  knights  in  full 
armour,  with  strange  heraldic  shields  and  curious 
visors,  leaning  from  shell-shaped  chariot  over  rear- 
ing steeds :  the  gods  seated  at  the  feast  or  working 
their  miracles  :  the  heroes  in  their  victory  or  in  their 
pain.  Sometimes  he  would  etch  in  thin  vermilion 
lines  upon  a  ground  of  white  the  languid  bridegroom 
and  his  bride,  with  Eros  hovering  round  them — an 
Eros  like  one  of  Donatello's  angels,  a  little  laughing 
thing  with  gilded  or  with  azure  wings.  On  the 
curved  side  he  would  write  the  name  of  his  friend. 
KAAOS  AAKIBIAAHS  or  KAAOS  XAPMIAHS  tells 
us  the  story  of  his  days.  Again,  on  the  rim  of  the 
wide  flat  cup  he  would  draw  the  stag  browsing,  or 
the  lion  at  rest,  as  his  fancy  willed  it.  From  the 
tiny  perfume-bottle  laughed  Aphrodite  at  her  toilet* 
and,  with  bare-limbed  Maenads  in  his  train,  Diony- 
sus danced  round  the  wine-jar  on  naked  must- 
stained  feet,  while,  satyr-like,  the  old  Silenus 
sprawled  upon  the  bloated  skins,  or  shook  that 
magic  spear  which  was  tipped  with  a  fretted  fir- 
cone, and  wreathed  with  dark  ivy.     And  no  one 


THE    CRITIC    AS    ARTIST  109 

came  to  trouble  the  artist  at  his  work.  No  irre- 
sponsible chatter  disturbed  him.  He  was  not  wor- 
ried by  opinions.  By  the  Ilyssus,  says  Arnold 
somewhere,  there  was  no  Higginbotham.  By  the 
Ilyssus,  my  dear  Gilbert,  there  were  no  silly  art- 
congresses,  bringing  provincialism  to  the  provinces 
and  teaching  the  mediocrity  how  to  mouth.  By 
the  Ilyssus  there  were  no  tedious  magazines  about 
art,  in  which  the  industrious  prattle  of  what  they  do 
not  understand.  On  the  reed-grown  banks  of  that 
little  stream  strutted  no  ridiculous  journalism  mo- 
nopolizing the  seat  of  judgment  when  it  should  be 
apologizing  in  the  dock.  The  Greeks  had  no  art- 
critics. 

Gilbert.  Ernest,  you  are  quite  delightful,  but  your 
views  are  terribly  unsound.  I  am  afraid  that  you 
have  been  listening  to  the  conversation  of  someone 
older  than  yourself.  That  is  always  a  dangerous 
thing  to  do,  and  if  you  allow  it  to  degenerate  into  a 
habit,  you  will  find  it  absolutely  fatal  to  any  intel- 
lectual development.  As  for  modern  journalism,  it 
is  not  my  business  to  defend  it.  It  justifies  its  own 
existence  by  the  great  Darwinian  principle  of  the 
survival  of  the  vulgarest.  I  have  merely  to  do 
with  literature. 

Ernest.  But  what  is  the  difference  between  litera- 
ture and  journalism  ? 


IIO  INTENTIONS 

Gilbert.  Oh!  journalism  is  unreadable,  and  lit- 
erature is  not  read.  That  is  all.  But  with  re- 
gard to  your  statement  that  the  Greeks  had  no 
art-critics,  I  assure  you  that  is  quite  absurd.  It 
would  be  more  just  to  say  that  the  Greeks  were  a 
nation  of  art-critics. 

Ernest.   Really  ? 

Gilbert.  Yes,  a  nation  of  art-critics.  But  I  don't 
wish  to  destroy  the  delightfully  unreal  picture  that 
you  have  drawn  of  the  relation  of  the  Hellenic 
artist  to  the  intellectual  spirit  of  his  age.  To  give 
an  accurate  description  of  what  has  never  occurred 
is  not  merely  the  proper  occupation  of  the  his- 
torian, but  the  inalienable  privilege  of  any  man  of 
parts  and  culture.  Still  less  do  I  desire  to  talk 
learnedly.  Learned  conversation  is  either  the  af- 
fectation of  the  ignorant  or  the  profession  of  the 
mentally  unemployed.  And  as  for  what  is  called 
improving  conversation,  that  is  merely  the  foolish 
method  by  which  the  still  more  foolish  philanthro- 
pist feebly  tries  to  disarm  the  just  rancour  of  the 
criminal  classes.  No :  let  me  play  to  you  some  mad 
scarlet  thing  by  Dvorak.  The  pallid  figures  on  the 
tapestry  are  smiling  at  us,  and  the  heavy  eyelids  of 
my  bronze  Narcissus  are  folded  in  sleep.  Don't  let 
us  discuss  anything  solemnly.  I  am  but  too  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  we  are  born  in  an  age  when 


THE    CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  I  I  I 

only  the  dull  are  treated  seriously,  and  I  live  in  ter- 
ror of  not  being  misunderstood.  Don't  degrade  me 
into  the  position  of  giving  you  useful  information. 
Education  is  an  admirable  thing,  but  it  is  well  to 
remember  from  time  to  time  that  nothing  that  is 
worth  knowing  can  be  taught.  Through  the  parted 
curtains  of  the  window  I  see  the  moon  like  a  clipped 
piece  of  silver.  Like  gilded  bees  the  stars  cluster 
round  her.  The  sky  is  a  hard  hollow  sapphire.  Let 
us  go  out  into  the  night.  Thought  is  wonderful, 
but  adventure  is  more  wonderful  still.  Who  knows 
but  we  may  meet  Prince  Florizel  of  Bohemia,  and 
hear  the  fair  Cuban  tell  us  that  she  is  not  what  she 
seems? 

Ernest.  You  are  horribly  wilful.  I  insist  on  your 
discussing  this  matter  with  me.  You  have  said  that 
the  Greeks  were  a  nation  of  art-critics.  What  art- 
criticism  have  they  left  us? 

Gilbert.  My  dear  Ernest,  even  if  not  a  single 
fragment  of  art-criticism  had  come  down  to  us  from 
Hellenic  or  Hellenistic  days,  it  would  be  none  the 
less  true  that  the  Greeks  were  a  nation  of  art- 
critics,  and  that  they  invented  the  criticism  of  art 
just  as  they  invented  the  criticism  of  everything 
else.  For,  after  all,  what  is  our  primary  debt  to 
the  Greeks?  Simply  the  critical  spirit.  And,  this 
spirit,  which  they  exercised  on  questions  of  religion 


112  INTENTIONS 

and  science,  of  ethics  and  metaphysics,  of  politics 
and  education,  they  exercised  on  questions  of  art 
also,  and,  indeed,  of  the  two  supreme  and  highest 
arts,  they  have  left  us  the  most  flawless  system  of 
criticism  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

Ernest.  But  what  are  the  two  supreme  and  high- 
est arts? 

Gilbert.  Life  and  Literature,  life  and  the  perfect 
expression  of  life.  The  principles  of  the  former,  as 
laid  down  by  the  Greeks,  we  may  not  realize  in  an 
age  so  marred  by  false  ideals  as  our  own.  The 
principles  of  the  latter,  as  they  laid  them  down,  are, 
in  many  cases,  so  subtle  that  we  can  hardly  under- 
stand them.  Recognizing  that  the  most  perfect  art  is 
that  which  most  fully  mirrors  man  in  all  his  infinite 
variety,  they  elaborated  the  criticism  of  language, 
considered  in  the  light  of  the  mere  material  of  that 
art,  to  a  point  to  which  we,  with  our  accentual  sys- 
tem of  reasonable  or  emotional  emphasis,  can  barely 
if  at  all  attain ;  studying,  for  instance,  the  metrical 
movements  of  a  prose  as  scientifically  as  a  modern 
musician  studies  harmony  and  counterpoint,  and,  I 
need  hardly  say,  with  much  keener  aesthetic  instinct. 
In  this  they  were  right,  as  they  were  right  in  all 
things.  Since  the  introduction  of  printing,  and  the 
fatal  development  of  the  habit  of  reading  amongst 
the  middle  and  lower  classes  of  this  country,  there 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  113 

has  been  a  tendency  in  literature  to  appeal  more  and 
more  to  the  eye,  and  less  and  less  to  the  ear,  which 
is  really  the  sense  which,  from  the  standpoint  of 
pure  art,  it  should  seek  to  please,  and  by  whose 
canons  of  pleasure  it  should  abide  always.  Even  the 
work  of  Mr.  Pater,  who  is,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
perfect  master  of  English  prose  now  creating  amongst 
us,  is  often  far  more  like  a  piece  of  mosaic  than  a 
passage  in  music,  and  seems,  here  and  there,  to  lack 
the  true  rhythmical  life  of  words  and  the  fine  free- 
dom and  richness  of  effect  that  such  rhythmical  life 
produces.  We,  in  fact,  have  made  writing  a  definite 
mode  of  composition,  and  have  treated  it  as  a  form 
of  elaborate  design.  The  Greeks,  upon  the  other 
hand,  regarded  writing  simply  as  a  method  of  chron- 
icling. Their  test  was  always  the  spoken  word  in 
its  musical  and  metrical  relations.  The  voice  was 
the  medium,  and  the  ear  the  critic.  I  have  some- 
times thought  that  the  story  of  Homer's  blindness 
might  be  really  an  artistic  myth,  created  in  critical 
days,  and  serving  to  remind  us,  not  merely  that  the 
great  poet  is  always  a  seer,  seeing  less  with  the 
eyes  of  the  body  than  he  does  with  the  eyes  of  the 
soul,  but  that  he  is  a  true  singer  also,  building  his 
song  out  of  music,  repeating  each  line  over  and 
over  again  to  himself  till  he  has  caught  the  secret 
of  its  melody,  chaunting  in  darkness  the  words  that 


114  INTENTIONS 

are  winged  with  light.  Certainly,  whether  this  be 
so  or  not,  it  was  to  his  blindness,  as  an  occasion  if 
not  as  a  cause,  that  England's  great  poet  owed 
much  of  the  majestic  movement  and  sonorous  splen- 
dour of  his  later  verse.  When  Milton  could  no 
longer  write,  he  began  to  sing.  Who  would  match 
the  measures  of  Comus  with  the  measures  of  Sam- 
son Agonistes,  or  of  Paradise  Lost  or  Regained? 
When  Milton  became  blind  he  composed,  as  every- 
one should  compose,  with  the  voice  purely,  and  so 
the  pipe  or  reed  of  earlier  days  became  that  mighty 
many-stopped  organ  whose  rich  reverberant  music 
has  all  the  stateliness  of  Homeric  verse,  if  it  seeks 
not  to  have  its  swiftness,  and  is  the  one  imperish- 
able inheritance  of  English  literature,  sweeping 
through  all  the  ages,  because  above  them,  and 
abiding  with  us  ever,  being  immortal  in  its  form. 
Yes:  writing  has  done  much  harm  to  writers. 
We  must  return  to  the  voice.  That  must  be  our 
test,  and  perhaps  then  we  shall  be  able  to  appreciate 
some  of  the  subtleties  of  Greek  art-criticism. 

As  it  now  is,  we  cannot  do  so.  Sometimes,  when 
I  have  written  a  piece  of  prose  that  I  have  been 
modest  enough  to  consider  absolutely  free  from 
fault,  a  dreadful  thought  comes  over  me  that  I 
may  have  been  guilty  of  the  immoral  effeminacy  of 
using  trochaic  and  tribrachic  movements,  a  crime 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  115 

for  which  a  learned  critic  of  the  Augustan  age 
censures  with  most  just  severity  the  brilliant  if 
somewhat  paradoxical  Hegesias.  I  grow  cold  when 
I  think  of  it,  and  wonder  to  myself  if  the  admirable 
ethical  effect  of  the  prose  of  that  charming  writer, 
who  once  in  a  spirit  of  reckless  generosity  towards 
the  uncultivated  portion  of  our  community  pro- 
claimed the  monstrous  doctrine  that  conduct  is 
three-fourths  of  life,  will  not  some  day  be  entirely 
annihilated  by  the  discovery  that  the  paeons  have 
been  wrongly  placed. 

Ernest.  Ah !  now  you  are  flippant. 

Gilbert.  Who  would  not  be  flippant  when  he  is 
gravely  told  that  the  Greeks  had  no  art-critics  ?  I 
can  understand  it  being  said  that  the  constructive 
genius  of  the  Greeks  lost  itself  in  criticism,  but  not 
that  the  race  to  whom  we  owe  the  critical  spirit  did 
not  criticise.  You  will  not  ask  me  to  give  you  a  sur- 
vey of  Greek  art-criticism  from  Plato  to  Plotinus. 
The  night  is  too  lovely  for  that,  and  the  moon,  if  she 
heard  us,  would  put  more  ashes  on  her  face  than  are 
there  already.  But  think  merely  of  one  perfect  little 
work  of  aesthetic  criticism,  Aristotle's  Treatise  on 
Poetry.  It  is  not  perfect  in  form,  for  it  is  badly  writ- 
ten, consisting  perhaps  of  notes  jotted  down  for  an 
art  lecture,  or  of  isolated  fragments  destined  for 
some  larger  book,  but  in  temper  and  treatment  it  is 


Il6  INTENTIONS 

perfect  absolutely.  The  ethical  effect  of  art,  its  im- 
portance to  culture,  and  its  place  in  the  formation  of 
character,  had  been  done  once  for  all  by  Plato  ;  but 
here  we  have  art  treated,  not  from  the  moral,  but 
from  the  purely  aesthetic  point  of  view.  Plato  had, 
of  course,  dealt  with  many  definitely  artistic  sub- 
jects, such  as  the  importance  of  unity  in  a  work  of 
art,  the  necessity  for  tone  and  harmony,  the  aesthetic 
value  of  appearances,  the  relation  of  the  visible  arts 
to  the  external  world,  and  the  relation  of  fiction  to 
fact.  He  first  perhaps  stirred  in  the  soul  of  man 
that  desire  which  we  have  not  yet  satisfied,  the  de- 
sire to  know  the  connection  between  Beauty  and 
Truth,  and  the  place  of  Beauty  in  the  moral  and  in- 
tellectual order  of  the  Kosmos.  The  problems  of 
idealism  and  realism,  as  he  sets  them  forth,  may 
seem  to  many  to  be  somewhat  barren  of  result  in  the 
metaphysical  sphere  of  abstract  being  in  which  he 
places  them,  but  transfer  them  to  the  sphere  of  art, 
and  you  will  find  that  they  are  still  vital  and  full  of 
meaning.  It  may  be  that  it  is  as  a  critic  of  Beauty 
that  Plato  is  destined  to  live,  and  that  by  altering 
the  name  of  the  sphere  of  his  speculation  we  shall  find 
a  new  philosophy.  But  Aristotle,  like  Goethe,  deals 
with  art  primarily  in  its  concrete  manifestations, 
taking  Tragedy,  for  instance,  and  investigating  the 
material  it  uses,  which  is  language,  its  subject-mat- 


THE    CRITIC    AS   ARTIST  1 1  7 

ter,  which  is  life,  the  method  by  which  it  works,  which 
is  action,  the  conditions  under  which  it  reveals  itself, 
which  are  those  of  theatric  presentation,  its  logical 
structure,  which  is  plot,  and  its  final  aesthetic  appeal, 
which  is  to  the  sense  of  beauty  realized  through  the 
passions  of  pity  and  awe.  That  purification  and 
spiritualizing  of  the  nature  which  he  calls  xaQapaiq  is, 
as  Goethe  saw,  essentially  aesthetic,  and  is  not  moral, 
as  Lessing  fancied.  Concerning  himself  primarily 
with  the  impression  that  the  work  of  art  produces, 
Aristotle  sets  himself  to  analyse  that  impression,  to 
investigate  its  source,  to  see  how  it  is  engendered. 
As  a  physiologist  and  psychologist,  he  knows  that 
the  health  of  a  function  resides  in  energy.  To  have 
a  capacity  for  a  passion  and  not  to  realize  it,  is  to 
make  oneself  incomplete  and  limited.  The  mimic 
spectacle  of  life  that  Tragedy  affords  cleanses  the 
bosom  of  much  'perilous  stuff,'  and  by  presenting 
high  and  worthy  objects  for  the  exercise  of  the  emo- 
tions purifies  and  spiritualizes  the  man ;  nay,  not 
merely  does  it  spiritualize  him,  but  it  initiates  him 
also  into  noble  feelings  of  which  he  might  else  have 
known  nothing,  the  word  %a6apat?  having,  it  has 
sometimes  seemed  to  me,  a  definite  allusion  to  the 
rite  of  initiation,  if  indeed  that  be  not,  as  I  am  occa- 
sionally tempted  to  fancy,  its  true  and  only  meaning 
here.     This  is  of  course  a  mere  outline  of  the  book. 


Il8  INTENTIONS 

But  you  see  what  a  perfect  piece  of  aesthetic  criti- 
cism it  is.  Who  indeed  but  a  Greek  could  have 
analysed  art  so  well  ?  After  reading  it,  one  does  not 
wonder  any  longer  that  Alexandria  devoted  itself 
so  largely  to  art-criticism,  and  that  we  find  the  ar- 
tistic temperaments  of  the  day  investigating  every 
question  of  style  and  manner,  discussing  the  great 
Academic  schools  of  painting,  for  instance,  such  as 
the  school  of  Sicyon,  that  sought  to  preserve  the 
dignified  traditions  of  the  antique  mode,  or  the 
realistic  and  impressionist  schools,  that  aimed  at  re- 
producing actual  life,  or  the  elements  of  ideality  in 
portraiture,  or  the  artistic  value  of  the  epic  form  in 
an  age  so  modern  as  theirs,  or  the  proper  subject- 
matter  for  the  artist.  Indeed,  I  fear  that  the  inar- 
tistic temperaments  of  the  day  busied  themselves  also 
in  matters  of  literature  and  art,  for  the  accusations 
of  plagiarism  were  endless,  and  such  accusations  pro- 
ceed either  from  the  thin  colourless  lips  of  impo- 
tence, or  from  the  grotesque  mouths  of  those  who, 
possessing  nothing  of  their  own,  fancy  that  they  can 
gain  a  reputation  for  wealth  by  crying  out  that  they 
have  been  robbed.  And  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Er- 
nest, that  the  Greeks  chattered  about  painters  quite 
as  much  as  people  do  nowadays,  and  had  their  private 
views,  and  shilling  exhibitions,  and  Arts  and  Crafts 
guilds,  and  Pre-Raphael  movements,  and  movements 


THE   CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  119 

towards  realism,  and  lectured  about  art,  and  wrote 
essays  on  art,  and  produced  their  art-historians,  and 
their  archaeologists,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Why, 
even  the  theatrical  managers  of  travelling  compa- 
nies brought  their  dramatic  critics  with  them  when 
they  went  on  tour,  and  paid  them  very  handsome 
salaries  for  writing  laudatory  notices.  Whatever, 
in  fact,  is  modern  in  our  life  we  owe  to  the  Greeks. 
Whatever  is  an  anachronism  is  due  to  mediaevalism. 
It  is  the  Greeks  who  have  given  us  the  whole  system 
of  art-criticism,  and  how  fine  their  critical  instinct 
was,  may  be  seen  from  the  fact  that  the  material 
they  criticised  with  most  care  was,  as  I  have  already 
said,  language.  For  the  material  that  painter  or 
sculptor  uses  is  meagre  in  comparison  with  that  of 
words.  Words  have  not  merely  music  as  sweet  as 
that  of  viol  and  lute,  colour  as  rich  and  vivid  as  any 
that  makes  lovely  for  us  the  canvas  of  the  Venetian 
or  the  Spaniard,  and  plastic  form  no  less  sure  and 
certain  than  that  which  reveals  itself  in  marble  or  in 
bronze,  but  thought  and  passion  and  spirituality  are 
theirs  also,  are  theirs  indeed  alone.  If  the  Greeks 
had  criticised  nothing  but  language,  they  would  still 
have  been  the  great  art-critics  of  the  world.  To 
know  the  principles  of  the  highest  art,  is  to  know  the 
principles  of  all  the  arts. 

But  I  see  that  the  moon  is  hiding  behind  a  sulphur- 


120  INTENTIONS 

coloured  cloud.  Out  of  a  tawny  mane  of  drift  she 
gleams  like  a  lion's  eye.  She  is  afraid  that  I  will  talk 
to  you  of  Lucian  and  Longinus,  of  Quinctilian  and 
Dionysius,  of  Pliny  and  Fronto  and  Pausanias,  of  all 
those  who  in  the  antique  world  wrote  or  lectured 
upon  art-matters.  She  need  not  be  afraid.  I  am 
tired  of  my  expedition  into  the  dim,  dull  abyss  of 
facts.  There  is  nothing  left  for  me  now  but  the 
divine  u.ovd7.povo?  rfiovfi  of  another  cigarette.  Ciga- 
rettes have  at  least  the  charm  of  leaving  one  unsat- 
isfied. 

Ernest.  Try  one  of  mine.  They  are  rather  good. 
I  get  them  direct  from  Cairo.  The  only  use  of  our 
attaches  is  that  they  supply  their  friends  with  excel- 
lent tobacco.  And  as  the  moon  has  hidden  herself, 
let  us  talk  a  little  longer.  I  am  quite  ready  to  admit 
that  I  was  wrong  in  what  I  said  about  the  Greeks. 
They  were,  as  you  have  pointed  out,  a  nation  of  art- 
critics.  I  acknowledge  it,  and  I  feel  a  little  sorry  for 
them.  For  the  creative  faculty  is  higher  than  the 
critical.  There  is  really  no  comparison  between 
them. 

Gilbert.  The  antithesis  between  them  is  entirely 
arbitrary.  Without  the  critical  faculty,  there  is  no 
artistic  creation  at  all,  worthy  of  the  name.  You 
spoke  a  little  while  ago  of  that  fine  spirit  of  choice 
and  delicate  instinct  of  selection  by  which  the  artist 


THE    CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  121 

realizes  life  for  us,  and  gives  to  it  a  momentary  per- 
fection. Well,  that  spirit  of  choice,  that  subtle  tact 
of  omission,  is  really  the  critical  faculty  in  one  of  its 
most  characteristic  moods,  and  no  one  who  does  not 
possess  this  critical  faculty  can  create  anything  at 
all  in  art.  Arnold's  definition  of  literature  as  a  criti- 
cism of  life,  was  not  very  felicitous  in  form,  but  it 
showed  how  keenly  he  recognized  the  importance 
of  the  critical  element  in  all  creative  work. 

Ernest.  I  should  have  said  that  great  artists 
worked  unconsciously,  that  they  were  "wiser  than 
they  knew,"  as,  I  think,  Emerson  remarks  some- 
where. 

Gilbert.  It  is  really  not  so,  Ernest.  All  fine 
imaginative  work  is  self-conscious  and  deliberate. 
No  poet  sings  because  he  must  sing.  At  least,  no 
great  poet  does.  A  great  poet  sings  because  he 
chooses  to  sing.  It  is  so  now,  and  it  has  always  been 
so.  We  are  sometimes  apt  to  think  that  the  voices 
that  sounded  at  the  dawn  of  poetry  were  simpler, 
fresher,  and  more  natural  than  ours,  and  that  the 
world  which  the  early  poets  looked  at,  and  through 
which  they  walked,  had  a  kind  of  poetical  quality  of 
its  own,  and  almost  without  changing  could  pass  into 
song.  The  snow  lies  thick  now  upon  Olympus,  and 
its  steep  scarped  sides  are  bleak  and  barren,  but 
once,  we  fancy,  the  white  feet  of  the  Muses  brushed 


122  INTENTIONS 

the  dew  from  the  anemones  in  the  morning,  and  at 
evening  came  Apollo  to  sing  to  the  shepherds  in 
the  vale.  But  in  this  we  are  merely  lending  to  other 
ages  what  we  desire,  or  think  we  desire,  for  our  own. 
Our  historical  sense  is  at  fault.  Every  century  that 
produces  poetry  is,  so  far,  an  artificial  century,  and 
the  work  that  seems  to  us  to  be  the  most  natural 
and  simple  product  of  its  time  is  always  the  result 
of  the  most  self-conscious  effort.  Believe  me,  Ernest, 
there  is  no  fine  art  without  self-consciousness,  and 
self-consciousness  and  the  critical  spirit  are  one. 

Ernest.  I  see  what  you  mean,  and  there  is  much 
in  it.  But  surely  you  would  admit  that  the  great 
poems  of  the  early  world,  the  primitive,  anonymous 
collective  poems,  were  the  result  of  the  imagination 
of  races,  rather  than  of  the  imagination  of  in- 
dividuals? 

Gilbert.  Not  when  they  became  poetry.  Not 
when  they  received  a  beautiful  form.  For  there  is 
no  art  where  there  is  no  style,  and  no  style  where 
there  is  no  unity,  and  unity  is  of  the  individual. 
No  doubt  Homer  had  old  ballads  and  stories  to  deal 
with,  as  Shakespeare  had  chronicles  and  plays  and 
novels  from  which  to  work,  but  they  were  merely  his 
rough  material.  He  took  them,  and  shaped  them 
into  song.  They  become  his,  because  he  made 
them  lovely.     They  were  built  out  of  music, 


THE    CRITIC   AS    ARTIST  1 23 

"  And  so  not  built  at  all, 
And  therefore  built  for  ever." 

The  longer  one  studies  life  and  literature,  the  more 
strongly  one  feels  that  behind  everything  that  is 
wonderful  stands  the  individual,  and  that  it  is  not  the 
moment  that  makes  the  man,  but  the  man  who 
creates  the  age.  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
each  myth  and  legend  that  seems  to  us  to  spring  out 
of  the  wonder,  or  terror,  or  fancy  of  tribe  and  nation, 
was  in  its  origin  the  invention  of  one  single  mind. 
The  curiously  limited  number  of  the  myths  seems  to 
me  to  point  to  this  conclusion.  But  we  must  not  go 
off  into  questions  of  comparative  mythology.  We 
must  keep  to  criticism.  And  what  I  want  to  point 
out  is  this.  An  age  that  has  no  criticism  is  either 
an  age  in  which  art  is  immobile,  hieratic,  and  con- 
fined to  the  reproduction  of  formal  types,  or  an  age 
that  possesses  no  art  at  all.  There  have  been 
critical  ages  that  have  not  been  creative,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  ages  in  which  the  spirit 
of  man  has  sought  to  set  in  order  the  treasures  of 
his  treasure  house,  to  separate  the  gold  from  the 
silver,  and  the  silver  from  the  lead,  to  count  over  the 
jewels,  and  to  give  names  to  the  pearls.  But  there 
has  never  been  a  creative  age  that  has  not  been 
critical  also.  For  it  is  the  critical  faculty  that  in- 
vents fresh  forms.     The  tendency  of  creation  is  to 


124  INTENTIONS 

repeat  itself.  It  is  to  the  critical  instinct  that  we 
owe  each  new  school  that  springs  up,  each  new 
mould  that  art  finds  ready  to  its  hand.  There  is 
really  not  a  single  form  that  art  now  uses  that  does 
not  come  to  us  from  the  critical  spirit  of  Alexandria, 
where  these  forms  were  either  stereotyped,  or  in- 
vented, or  made  perfect.  I  say  Alexandria,  not 
merely  beeause  it  was  there  that  the  Greek  spirit 
became  most  self-conscious,  and  indeed  ultimately 
expired  in  scepticism  and  theology,  but  because  it 
was  to  that  city,  and  not  to  Athens,  that  Rome 
turned  for  her  models,  and  it  was  through  the 
survival,  such  as  it  was,  of  the  Latin  language  that 
culture  lived  at  all.  When,  at  the  Renaissance, 
Greek  literature  dawned  upon  Europe,  the  soil  had 
been  in  some  measure  prepared  for  it.  But,  to  get 
rid  of  the  details  of  history,  which  are  always  weari- 
some and  usually  inaccurate,  let  us  say  generally, 
that  the  forms  of  art  have  been  due  to  the  Greek 
critical  spirit.  To  it  we  owe  the  epic,  the  lyric,  the 
entire  drama  in  every  one  of  its  developments,  in- 
cluding burlesque,  the  idyll,  the  romantic  novel,  the 
novel  of  adventure,  the  essay,  the  dialogue,  the 
oration,  the  lecture,  for  which  perhaps  we  should  not 
forgive  them,  and  the  epigram,  in  all  the  wide  mean- 
ing of  that  word.  In  fact,  we  owe  it  even-thing, 
except  the  sonnet,  to  which,  however,  some  curious 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  12$ 

parallels  of  thought-movement  may  be  traced  in  the 
Anthology,  American  journalism,  to  which  no  paral- 
lel can  be  found  anywhere,  and  the  ballad  in  sham 
Scotch  dialect,  which  one  of  our  most  industrious 
writers  has  recently  proposed  should  be  made  the 
basis  for  a  final  and  unanimous  effort  on  the  part  of 
our  second-rate  poets  to  make  themselves  really 
romantic.  Each  new  school,  as  it  appears,  cries  out 
against  criticism,  but  it  is  to  the  critical  faculty  in 
man  that  it  owes  its  origin.  The  mere  creative 
instinct  does  not  innovate,  but  reproduces. 

Ernest.  You  have  been  talking  of  criticism  as  an 
essential  part  of  the  creative  spirit,  and  I  now  fully 
accept  your  theory.  But  what  of  criticism  outside 
creation  ?  I  have  a  foolish  habit  of  reading  periodi- 
cals, and  it  seems  to  me  that  most  modern  criticism 
is  perfectly  valueless. 

Gilbert.  So  is  most  modern  creative  work  also. 
Mediocrity  weighing  mediocrity  in  the  balance,  and 
incompetence  applauding  its  brother — that  is  the 
spectacle  which  the  artistic  activity  of  England 
affords  us  from  time  to  time.  And  yet,  I  feel  I  am 
a  little  unfair  in  this  matter.  As  a  rule,  the  critics — 
I  speak,  of  course,  of  the  higher  class,  of  those  in 
fact  who  write  for  the  sixpenny  papers — are  far 
more  cultured  than  the  people  whose  work  they  are 
called  upon  to  review.     This  is,  indeed,  only  what 


126  INTENTIONS 

one  would  expect,  for  criticism  demands  infinitely- 
more  cultivation  than  creation  does. 

Ernest.   Really  ? 

Gilbert.  Certainly.  Anybody  can  write  a  three- 
volumed  novel.  It  merely  requires  a  complete 
ignorance  of  both  life  and  literature.  The  difficulty 
that  I  should  fancy  the  reviewer  feels  is  the  difficulty 
of  sustaining  any  standard.  Where  there  is  no  style 
a  standard  must  be  impossible.  The  poor  reviewers 
are  apparently  reduced  to  be  the  reporters  of  the 
police-court  of  literature,  the  chroniclers  of  the 
doings  of  the  habitual  criminals  of  art.  It  is  some- 
times said  of  them  that  they  do  not  read  all  through 
the  works  they  are  called  upon  to  criticise.  They 
do  not.  Or  at  least  they  should  not.  If  they  did 
so,  they  would  become  confirmed  misanthropes,  or 
if  I  may  borrow  a  phrase  from  one  of  the  pretty 
Newnham  graduates,  confirmed  womanthropes  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives.  Nor  is  it  necessary.  To  know 
the  vintage  and  quality  of  a  wine  one  need  not 
drink  the  whole  cask.  It  must  be  perfectly  easy  in 
half  an  hour  to  say  whether  a  book  is  worth  any- 
thing or  worth  nothing.  Ten  minutes  are  really 
sufficient,  if  one  has  the  instinct  for  form.  Who 
wants  to  wade  through  a  dull  volume?  One  tastes 
it,  and  that  is  quite  enough — more  than  enough,  I 
should  imagine.     I  am  aware  that  there  are  many 


THE   CRITIC   AS  ARTIST  12  7 

honest  workers  in  painting  as  well  as  in  literature 
who  object  to  criticism  entirely.  They  are  quite 
right.  Their  work  stands  in  no  intellectual  relation 
to  their  age.  It  brings  us  no  new  element  of 
pleasure.  It  suggests  no  fresh  departure  of  thought, 
or  passion,  or  beauty.  It  should  not  be  spoken  of. 
It  should  be  left  to  the  oblivion  that  it  deserves. 

Ernest.  But,  my  dear  fellow — excuse  me  for  inter- 
rupting you — you  seem  to  me  to  be  allowing  your 
passion  for  criticism  to  lead  you  a  great  deal  too  far. 
For,  after  all,  even  you  must  admit  that  it  is  much 
more  difficult  to  do  a  thing  than  to  talk  about  it. 

Gilbert.  More  difficult  to  do  a  thing  than  to  talk 
about  it?  Not  at  all.  That  is  a  gross  popular 
error.  It  is  very  much  more  difficult  to  talk  about  a 
thing  than  to  do  it.  In  the  sphere  of  actual  life  that 
is  of  course  obvious.  Anybody  can  make  history. 
Only  a  great  man  can  write  it.  There  is  no  mode 
of  action,  no  form  of  emotion,  that  we  do  not  share 
with  the  lower  animals.  It  is  only  by  language  that 
we  rise  above  them,  or  above  each  other — by  lan- 
guage, which  is  the  parent,  and  not  the  child,  of 
thought.  Action,  indeed,  is  always  easy,  and  when 
presented  to  us  in  its  most  aggravated,  because  most 
continuous  form,  which  I  take  to  be  that  of  real  in- 
dustry, becomes  simply  the  refuge  of  people  who 
have  nothing  whatsoever  to  do.     No,  Ernest,  don't 


128  INTENTIONS 

talk  about  action.  It  is  a  blind  thing  dependent 
on  external  influences,  and  moved  by  an  impulse 
of  whose  nature  it  is  unconscious.  It  is  a  thing  in- 
complete in  its  essence,  because  limited  by  accident, 
and  ignorant  of  its  direction,  being  always  at  variance 
with  its  aim.  Its  basis  is  the  lack  of  imagination. 
It  is  the  last  resource  of  those  who  know  not  how 
to  dream. 

Ernest.  Gilbert,  you  treat  the  world  as  if  it  were 
a  crystal  ball.  You  hold  it  in  your  hand,  and  reverse 
it  to  please  a  wilful  fancy.  You  do  nothing  but  re- 
write history. 

Gilbert.  The  one  duty  we  owe  to  history  is  to  re- 
write it.  That  is  not  the  least  of  the  tasks  in  store 
for  the  critical  spirit.  When  we  have  fully  discovered 
the  scientific  laws  that  govern  life,  we  shall  realize 
that  the  one  person  who  has  more  illusions  than  the 
dreamer  is  the  man  of  action.  He,  indeed,  knows 
neither  the  origin  of  his  deeds  nor  their  results. 
From  the  field  in  which  he  thought  that  he  had 
sown  thorns,  we  have  gathered  our  vintage,  and  the 
fig-tree  that  he  planted  for  our  pleasure  is  as  barren 
as  the  thistle,  and  more  bitter.  It  is  because 
Humanity  has  never  known  where  it  was  going  that 
it  has  been  able  to  find  its  way. 

Ernest.  You  think,  then,  that  in  the  sphere  of 
action  a  conscious  aim  is  a  delusion? 


THE    CRITIC    AS    ARTIST  129 

Gilbert.  It  is  worse  than  a  delusion.  If  we  lived 
long  enough  to  see  the  results  of  our  actions  it  may 
be  that  those  who  call  themselves  good  would  be 
sickened  with  a  dull  remorse,  and  those  whom  the 
world  calls  evil  stirred  by  a  noble  joy.  Each  little 
thing  that  we  do  passes  into  the  great  machine  of 
life,  which  may  grind  our  virtues  to  powder  and  make 
them  worthless,  or  transform  our  sins  into  elements 
of  a  new  civilization,  more  marvellous  and  more 
splendid  than  any  that  has  gone  before.  But  men 
are  the  slaves  of  words.  They  rage  against  Ma- 
terialism, as  they  call  it,  forgetting  that  there  has 
been  no  material  improvement  that  has  not  spiritual- 
ized the  world,  and  that  there  have  been  few,  if  any, 
spiritual  awakenings  that  have  not  wasted  the  world's 
faculties  in  barren  hopes,  and  fruitless  aspirations, 
and  empty  or  trammelling  creeds.  What  is  termed 
Sin  is  an  essential  element  of  progress.  Without  it 
the  world  would  stagnate,  or  grow  old,  or  become 
colourless.  By  its  curiosity,  Sin  increases  the  ex- 
perience of  the  race.  Through  its  intensified  asser- 
tion of  individualism,  it  saves  us  from  monotony  of 
type.  In  its  rejection  of  the  current  notions  about 
morality,  it  is  one  with  the  higher  ethics.  And  as 
for  the  virtues!  What  are  the  virtues?  Nature, 
M.  Renan  tells  us,  cares  little  about  chastity,  and  it 
may  be  that  it  is  to  the  shame  of  the  Magdalen,  and 


130  INTENTIONS 

not  to  their  own  purity,  that  the  Lucretias  of 
modern  life  owe  their  freedom  from  stain.  Charity, 
as  even  those  of  whose  religion  it  makes  a  formal 
part  have  been  compelled  to  acknowledge,  creates 
a  multitude  of  evils.  The  mere  existence  of  con- 
science, that  faculty  of  which  people  prate  so  much 
nowadays,  and  are  so  ignorantly  proud,  is  a  sign  of 
our  imperfect  development.  It  must  be  merged  in 
instinct  before  we  become  fine.  Self-denial  is  simply 
a  method  by  which  man  arrests  his  progress,  and 
self-sacrifice  a  survival  of  the  mutilation  of  the 
savage,  part  of  that  old  worship  of  pain  which  is  so 
terrible  a  factor  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and 
which  even  now  makes  its  victims  day  by  day,  and 
has  its  altars  in  the  land.  Virtues !  Who  knows 
what  the  virtues  are?  Not  you.  Not  I.  Not  any- 
one. It  is  well  for  our  vanity  that  we  slay  the 
criminal,  for  if  we  suffered  him  to  live  he  might 
show  us  what  we  had  gained  by  his  crime.  It  is 
well  for  his  peace  that  the  saint  goes  to  his  martyr- 
dom. He  is  spared  the  sight  of  the  horror  of  his 
harvest. 

Ernest.  Gilbert,  you  sound  too  harsh  a  note.  Let 
us  go  back  to  the  more  gracious  fields  of  literature. 
What  was  it  you  said  ?  That  it  was  more  difficult  to 
talk  about  a  thing  than  to  do  it? 

Gilbert  {after  a  pause).  Yes:  I  believe  I  ventured 


THE   CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  13I 

upon  that  simple  truth.  Surely  you  see  now  that  I 
am  right  ?  When  man  acts  he  is  a  puppet.  When 
he  describes  he  is  a  poet.  The  whole  secret  lies  in 
that.  It  was  easy  enough  on  the  sandy  plains  by 
windy  Ilion  to  send  the  notched  arrow  from  the 
painted  bow,  or  to  hurl  against  the  shield  of  hide 
and  flame-like  brass  the  long  ash-handled  spear.  It 
was  easy  for  the  adulterous  queen  to  spread  the 
Tyrian  carpets  for  her  lord,  and  then,  as  he  lay 
couched  in  the  marble  bath,  to  throw  over  his  head 
the  purple  net,  and  call  to  her  smooth-faced  lover  to 
stab  through  the  meshes  at  the  heart  that  should  have 
broken  at  Aulis.  For  Antigone  even,  with  Death 
waiting  for  her  as  her  bridegroom,  it  was  easy  to  pass 
through  the  tainted  air  at  noon,  and  climb  the  hill, 
and  strew  with  kindly  earth  the  wretched  naked 
corse  that  had  no  tomb.  But  what  of  those  who 
wrote  about  these  things  ?  What  of  those  who  gave 
them  reality,  and  made  them  live  for  ever?  Are 
they  not  greater  than  the  men  and  women  they  sing 
of?  "  Hector  that  sweet  knight  is  dead,"  and  Lu- 
cian  tells  us  how  in  the  dim  underworld  Menippus 
saw  the  bleaching  skull  of  Helen,  and  marvelled  that 
it  was  for  so  grim  a  favour  that  all  those  horned  ships 
were  launched,  those  beautiful  mailed  men  laid  low, 
those  towered  cities  brought  to  dust.  Yet,  every 
day  the  swan-like  daughter  of  Leda  comes  out  on  the 


132  INTENTIONS 

battlements,  and  looks  down  at  the  tide  of  war.  The 
greybeards  wonder  at  her  loveliness,  and  she  stands 
by  the  side  of  the  king.  In  his  chamber  of  stained 
ivory  lies  her  leman.  He  is  polishing  his  dainty 
armour,  and  combing  the  scarlet  plume.  With 
squire  and  page,  her  husband  passes  from  tent  to 
tent.  She  can  see  his  bright  hair,  and  hears,  or  fan- 
cies that  she  hears,  that  clear  cold  voice.  In  the 
courtyard  below,  the  son  of  Priam  is  buckling  on  his 
brazen  cuirass.  The  white  arms  of  Andromache  are 
around  his  neck.  He  sets  his  helmet  on  the  ground, 
lest  their  babe  should  be  frightened.  Behind  the 
embroidered  curtains  of  his  pavilion  sits  Achilles, 
in  perfumed  raiment,  while  in  harness  of  gilt  and  sil- 
ver the  friend  of  his  soul  arrays  himself  to  go  forth 
to  the  fight.  From  a  curiously  carven  chest  that  his 
mother  Thetis  had  brought  to  his  ship-side,  the  Lord 
of  the  Myrmidons  takes  out  that  mystic  chalice  that 
the  lip  of  man  had  never  touched,  and  cleanses  it 
with  brimstone,  and  with  fresh  water  cools  it,  and, 
having  washed  his  hands,  fills  with  black  wine  its 
burnished  hollow,  and  spills  the  thick  grape-blood 
upon  the  ground  in  honour  of  Him  whom  at  Dodona 
barefooted  prophets  worshipped,  and  prays  to  Him, 
and  knows  not  that  he  prays  in  vain,  and  that  by  the 
hands  of  two  knights  from  Troy,  Panthous'  son, 
Euphorbus,  whose  love-locks  were  looped  with  gold, 


THE    CRITIC    AS   ARTIST  1 33 

and  the  Priamid,  the  lion-hearted,  Patroklus,  the 
comrade  of  comrades,  must  meet  his  doom.  Phan- 
toms, are  they?  Heroes  of  mist  and  mountain? 
Shadows  in  a  song?  No:  they  are  real.  Action! 
What  is  action  ?  It  dies  at  the  moment  of  its  energy. 
It  is  a  base  concession  to  fact.  The  world  is  made 
by  the  singer  for  the  dreamer.  - 

Ernest.  While  you  talk  it  seems  to  me  to  be  so. 

Gilbert.  It  is  so  in  truth.  On  the  mouldering  cita- 
del of  Troy  lies  the  lizard  like  a  thing  of  green 
bronze.  The  owl  has  built  her  nest  in  the  palace  of 
Priam.  Over  the  empty  plain  wander  shepherd  and 
goatherd  with  their  flocks,  and  where,  on  the  wine- 
surfaced,  oily  sea,  otvotp  icovzoq,  as  Homer  calls  it,  cop- 
per-prowed  and  streaked  with  vermilion,  the  great 
galleys  of  the  Danaoi  came  in  their  gleaming  cres- 
cent, the  lonely  tunny-fisher  sits  in  his  little  boat  and 
watches  the  bobbing  corks  of  his  net.  Yet,  every 
morning  the  doors  of  the  city  are  thrown  open,  and 
on  foot,  or  in  horse-drawn  chariot,  the  warriors  go 
forth  to  battle,  and  mock  their  enemies  from  behind 
their  iron  masks.  All  day  long  the  fight  rages,  and 
when  night  comes  the  torches  gleam  by  the  tents,  and 
the  cresset  burns  in  the  hall.  Those  who  live  in  mar- 
ble or  on  painted  panel,  know  of  life  but  a  single  ex- 
quisite instant,  eternal  indeed  in  its  beauty,  but  lim- 
ited to  one  note  of   passion  or  one  mood  of  calm. 


1 34  INTENTIONS 

Those  whom  the  poet  makes  live  have  their  myriad 
emotions  of  joy  and  terror,  of  courage  and  despair, 
of  pleasure  and  of  suffering.  The  seasons  come  and 
go  in  glad  or  saddening  pageant,  and  with  winged  or 
leaden  feet  the  years  pass  by  before  them.  They 
have  their  youth  and  their  manhood,  they  are  chil- 
dren, and  they  grow  old.  It  is  always  dawn  for 
St.  Helena,  as  Veronese  saw  her  at  the  window. 
Through  the  still  morning  air  the  angels  bring  her 
the  symbol  of  God's  pain.  The  cool  breezes  of  the 
morning  lift  the  gilt  threads  from  her  brow.  On  that 
little  hill  by  the  city  of  Florence,  where  the  lovers  of 
Giorgione  are  lying,  it  is  always  the  solstice  of  noon, 
of  noon  made  so  languorous  by  summer  suns  that 
hardly  can  the  slim  naked  girl  dip  into  the  marble 
tank  the  round  bubble  of  clear  glass,  and  the  long 
fingers  of  the  lute-player  rest  idly  upon  the  chords. 
It  is  twilight  always  for  the  dancing  nymphs  whom 
Corot  set  free  among  the  silver  poplars  of  France. 
In  eternal  twilight  they  move,  those  frail  diaphanous 
figures,  whose  tremulous  white  feet  seem  not  to  touch 
the  dew-drenched  grass  they  tread  on.  But  those 
who  walk  in  epos,  drama,  or  romance,  see  through 
the  labouring  months  the  young  moons  wax  and 
wane,  and  watch  the  night  from  evening  unto  morn- 
ing star,  and  from  sunrise  unto  sunsetting  can  note 
the  shifting  day  with  all  its  gold  and  shadow.     For 


THE   CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  1 35 

them,  as  for  us,  the  flowers  bloom  and  wither,  and 
the  Earth,  that  Green-tressed  Goddess  as  Coleridge 
calls  her,  alters  her  raiment  for  their  pleasure.  The 
statue  is  concentrated  to  one  moment  of  perfection. 
The  image  stained  upon  the  canvas  possesses  no 
spiritual  element  of  growth  or  change.  If  they  know 
nothing  of  death,  it  is  because  they  know  little  of 
life,  for  the  secrets  of  life  and  death  belong  to  those, 
and  those  only,  whom  the  sequence  of  time  affects, 
and  who  possess  not  merely  the  present  but  the  fu- 
ture, and  can  rise  or  fall  from  a  past  of  glory  or  of 
shame.  Movement,  that  problem  of  the  visible  arts, 
can  be  truly  realized  by  Literature  alone.  It  is 
Literature  that  shows  us  the  body  in  its  swiftness 
and  the  soul  in  its  unrest. 

Ernest.  Yes ;  I  see  now  what  you  mean.  But, 
surely,  the  higher  you  place  the  creative  artist,  the 
lower  must  the  critic  rank. 

Gilbert.  Why  so  ? 

Ernest.  Because  the  best  that  he  can  give  us  will 
be  but  an  echo  of  rich  music,  a  dim  shadow  of  clear- 
outlined  form.  It  may,  indeed,  be  that  life  is  chaos, 
as  you  tell  me  that  it  is ;  that  its  martyrdoms  are 
mean  and  its  heroisms  ignoble ;  and  that  it  is  the 
function  of  Literature  to  create,  from  the  rough 
material  of  actual  existence,  a  new  world  that  will 
be  more  marvellous,  more  enduring,  and  more  true 


136  INTENTIONS 

than  the  world  that  common  eyes  look  upon,  and 
through  which  common  natures  seek  to  realize  their 
perfection.  But  surely,  if  this  new  world  has  been 
made  by  the  spirit  and  touch  of  a  great  artist,  it 
will  be  a  thing  so  complete  and  perfect  that  there 
will  be  nothing  left  for  the  critic  to  do.  I  quite 
understand  now,  and  indeed  admit  most  readily, 
that  it  is  far  more  difficult  to  talk  about  a  thing  than 
to  do  it.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  this  sound  and 
sensible  maxim,  which  is  really  extremely  soothing 
to  one's  feelings,  and  should  be  adopted  as  its 
motto  by  every  Academy  of  Literature  all  over  the 
world,  applies  only  to  the  relations  that  exist  be- 
tween Art  and  Life,  and  not  to  any  relations  that 
there  may  be  between  Art  and  Criticism. 

Gilbert.  But,  surely,  Criticism  is  itself  an  art. 
And  just  as  artistic  creation  implies  the  working  of 
the  critical  faculty,  and,  indeed,  without  it  cannot 
be  said  to  exist  at  all,  so  Criticism  is  really  creative 
in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  Criticism  is,  in 
fact,  both  creative  and  independent. 

Ernest.   Independent? 

Gilbert.  Yes ;  independent.  Criticism  is  no  more 
to  be  judged  by  any  low  standard  of  imitation  or 
resemblance  than  is  the  work  of  poet  or  sculptor. 
The  critic  occupies  the  same  relation  to  the  work  of 
art  that  he  criticises  as  the  artist  does  to  the  visible 


THE   CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  137 

world  of  form  and  colour,  or  the  unseen  world  of 
passion  and  of  thought.  He  does  not  even  require 
for  the  perfection  of  his  art  the  finest  materials. 
Anything  will  serve  his  purpose.  And  just  as  out 
of  the  sordid  and  sentimental  amours  of  the  silly 
wife  of  a  small  country  doctor  in  the  squalid  village 
of  Yonville-l'Abbaye,  near  Rouen,  Gustave  Flau- 
bert was  able  to  create  a  classic,  and  make  a  mas- 
terpiece of  style,  so,  from  subjects  of  little  or  of  no 
importance,  such  as  the  pictures  in  this  year's  Royal 
Academy,  or  in  any  year's  Royal  Academy  for  that 
matter,  Mr.  Lewis  Morris's  poems,  M.  Ohnet's 
novels,  or  the  plays  of  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones, 
the  true  critic  can,  if  it  be  his  pleasure  so  to  direct 
or  waste  his  faculty  of  contemplation,  produce 
work  that  will  be  flawless  in  beauty  and  instinct 
with  intellectual  subtlety.  Why  not?  Dullness  is 
always  an  irresistible  temptation  for  brilliancy,  and 
stupidity  is  the  permanent  Bestia  Trionfans  that 
calls  wisdom  from  its  cave.  To  an  artist  so  creative 
as  the  critic,  what  does  subject-matter  signify  ?  No 
more  and  no  less  than  it  does  to  the  novelist  and 
the  painter.  Like  them,  he  can  find  his  motives 
everywhere.  Treatment  is  the  test.  There  is 
nothing  that  has  not  in  it  suggestion  or  challenge. 

Ernest.  But  is  criticism  really  a  creative  art? 

Gilbert.  Why  should  it  not  be?      It  works  with 


138  INTENTIONS 

materials,  and  puts  them  into  a  form  that  is  at  once 
new  and  delightful.  What  more  can  one  say  of 
poetry?  Indeed,  I  would  call  criticism  a  creation 
within  a  creation.  For  just  as  the  great  artists, 
from  Homer  and  .^Eschylus,  down  to  Shakespeare 
and  Keats,  did  not  go  directly  to  life  for  their  sub- 
ject-matter, but  sought  for  it  in  myth,  and  legend, 
and  ancient  tale,  so  the  critic  deals  with  materials 
that  others  have,  as  it  were,  purified  for  him,  and  to 
which  imaginative  form  and  colour  had  been  already 
added.  Nay,  more,  I  would  say  that  the  highest 
Criticism,  being  the  purest  form  of  personal  impres- 
sion, is  in  its  way  more  creative  than  creation,  as  it 
has  least  reference  to  any  standard  external  to  it- 
self, and  is,  in  fact,  its  own  reason  for  existing,  and, 
as  the  Greeks  would  put  it,  in  itself,  and  to  itself, 
an  end.  Certainly,  it  is  never  trammelled  by  any 
shackles  of  verisimilitude.  No  ignoble  considera- 
tion of  probability,  that  cowardly  concession  to  the 
tedious  repetitions  of  domestic  or  public  life,  affect 
it  ever.  One  may  appeal  from  fiction  unto  fact. 
But  from  the  soul  there  is  no  appeal. 

Ernest.   From  the  soul? 

Gilbert.  Yes,  from  the  soul.  That  is  what  the 
highest  criticism  really  is,  the  record  of  one's  own 
soul.  It  is  more  fascinating  than  history,  as  it  is 
concerned  simply  with  oneself.     It  is  more  delight- 


THE   CRITIC    AS   ARTIST  1 39 

ful  than  philosophy,  as  its  subject  is  concrete  and 
not  abstract,  real  and  not  vague.  It  is  the  only- 
civilized  form  of  autobiography,  as  it  deals  not  with 
the  events,  but  with  the  thoughts  of  one's  life ;  not 
with  life's  physical  accidents  of  deed  or  circum- 
stance, but  with  the  spiritual  moods  and  imaginative 
passions  of  the  mind.  I  am  always  amused  by  the 
silly  vanity  of  those  writers  and  artists  of  our  day 
who  seem  to  imagine  that  the  primary  function  of 
the  critic  is  to  chatter  about  their  second-rate  work. 
The  best  that  one  can  say  of  most  modern  creative 
art  is  that  it  is  just  a  little  less  vulgar  than  reality, 
and  so  the  critic,  with  his  fine  sense  of  distinction 
and  sure  instinct  of  delicate  refinement,  will  prefer 
to  look  into  the  silver  mirror  or  through  the  woven 
veil,  and  will  turn  his  eyes  away  from  the  chaos 
and  clamour  of  actual  existence,  though  the  mirror 
be  tarnished  and  the  veil  be  torn.  His  sole  aim  is 
to  chronicle  his  own  impressions.  It  is  for  him 
that  pictures  are  painted,  books  written,  and  marble 
hewn  into  form. 

Ernest.  I  seem  to  have  heard  another  theory  of 
Criticism. 

Gilbert.  Yes:  it  has  been  said  by  one  whose 
gracious  memory  we  all  revere,  and  the  music  of 
whose  pipe  once  lured  Proserpina  from  her  Sicilian 
fields,  and  made  those  white  feet  stir,  and  not  in 


140  INTENTIONS 

vain,  the  Cumnor  cowslips,  that  the  proper  aim  of 
Criticism  is  to  see  the  object  as  in  itself  it  really  is. 
But  this  is  a  very  serious  error,  and  takes  no  cogni- 
zance of  Criticism's  most  perfect  form,  which  is  in 
its  essence  purely  subjective,  and  seeks  to  reveal  its 
own  secret  and  not  the  secret  of  another.  For  the 
highest  Criticism  deals  with  art  not  as  expressive  but 
as  impressive  purely. 

Ernest.  But  is  that  really  so? 

Gilbert.  Of  course  it  is.  Who  cares  whether  Mr. 
Ruskin's  views  on  Turner  are  sound  or  not?  What 
does  it  matter?  That  mighty  and  majestic  prose 
of  his,  so  fervid  and  so  fiery-coloured  in  its  noble 
eloquence,  so  rich  in  its  elaborate  symphonic  music, 
so  sure  and  certain,  at  its  best,  in  subtle  choice  of 
word  and  epithet,  is  at  least  as  great  a  work  of  art 
as  any  of  those  wonderful  sunsets  that  bleach  or  rot 
on  their  corrupted  canvases  in  England's  Gallery ; 
greater  indeed,  one  is  apt  to  think  at  times,  not 
merely  because  its  equal  beauty  is  more  enduring, 
but  on  account  of  the  fuller  variety  of  its  appeal,  soul 
speaking  to  soul  in  those  long-cadenced  lines,  not 
through  form  and  colour  alone,  though  through  these, 
indeed,  completely  and  without  loss,  but  with  in- 
tellectual and  emotional  utterance,  with  lofty  passion 
and  with  loftier  thought,  with  imaginative  insight, 
and  with  poetic  aim ;  greater,  I  always  think,  even  as 


THE    CRITIC   AS    ARTIST  141 

Literature  is  the  greater  art.  Who,  again,  cares 
whether  Mr.  Pater  has  put  into  the  portrait  of 
Monna  Lisa  something  that  Lionardo  never  dreamed 
of?  The  painter  may  have  been  merely  the  slave  of 
an  archaic  smile,  as  some  have  fancied,  but  when- 
ever I  pass  into  the  cool  galleries  of  the  Palace  of 
the  Louvre,  and  stand  before  that  strange  figure 
"  set  in  its  marble  chair  in  that  cirque  of  fantastic 
rocks,  as  in  some  faint  light  under  sea,"  I  murmur 
to  myself,  "  She  is  older  than  the  rocks  among  which 
she  sits;  like  the  vampire,  she  has  been  dead  many 
times,  and  learned  the  secrets  of  the  grave  ;  and  has 
been  a  diver  in  deep  seas,  and  keeps  their  fallen  day 
about  her;  and  trafficked  for  strange  webs  with 
Eastern  merchants;  and,  as  Leda,  was  the  mother 
of  Helen  of  Troy,  and,  as  St.  Anne,  the  mother  of 
Mary ;  and  all  this  has  been  to  her  but  as  the  sound 
of  lyres  and  flutes,  and  lives  only  in  the  delicacy  with 
which  it  has  moulded  the  changing  lineaments,  and 
tinged  the  eyelids  and  the  hands."  And  I  say  to 
my  friend,  "  The  presence  that  thus  so  strangely 
rose  beside  the  waters  is  expressive  of  what  in  the 
ways  of  a  thousand  years  man  had  come  to  desire;" 
and  he  answers  me,  "  Hers  is  the  head  upon  which 
all  '  the  ends  of  the  world  are  come,'  and  the  eyelids 
are  a  little  weary." 

And  so  the  picture  becomes  more  wonderful  to  us 


142  INTENTIONS 

than  it  really  is,  and  reveals  to  us  a  secret  of  which, 
in  truth,  it  knows  nothing,  and  the  music  of  the 
mystical  prose  is  as  sweet  in  our  ears  as  was  that 
flute-player's  music  that  lent  to  the  lips  of  La 
Gioconda  those  subtle  and  poisonous  curves.  Do 
you  ask  me  what  Lionardo  would  have  said  had  any- 
one told  him  of  this  picture  that  "  all  the  thoughts 
and  experience  of  the  world  had  etched  and  moulded 
therein  that  which  they  had  of  power  to  refine  and 
make  expressive  the  outward  form,  the  animalism  of 
Greece,  the  lust  of  Rome,  the  reverie  of  the  Middle 
Age  with  its  spiritual  ambition  and  imaginative 
loves,  the  return  of  the  Pagan  world,  the  sins  of 
the  Borgias?"  He  would  probably  have  answered 
that  he  had  contemplated  none  of  these  things,  but 
had  concerned  himself  simply  with  certain  arrange- 
ments of  lines  and  masses,  and  with  new  and  curious 
colour-harmonies  of  blue  and  green.  And  it  is  for 
this  very  reason  that  the  criticism  which  I  have 
quoted  is  criticism  of  the  highest  kind.  It  treats  the 
work  of  art  simply  as  a  starting  point  for  a  new 
creation.  It  does  not  confine  itself — let  us  at  least 
suppose  so  for  the  moment — to  discovering  the  real 
intention  of  the  artist  and  accepting  that  as  final. 
And  in  this  it  is  right,  for  the  meaning  of  any  beauti- 
ful created  thing  is,  at  least,  as  much  in  the  soul  of 
him  who  looks  at  it,  as  it  was  in  his  soul  who  wrought 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  143 

it.  Nay,  it  is  rather  the  beholder  who  lends  to  the 
beautiful  thing  its  myriad  meanings,  and  makes  it 
marvellous  for  us,  and  sets  it  in  some  new  relation 
to  the  age,  so  that  it  becomes  a  vital  portion  of  our 
lives,  and  a  symbol  of  what  we  pray  for,  or  perhaps 
of  what,  having  prayed  for,  we  fear  that  we  may 
receive.  The  longer  I  study,  Ernest,  the  more 
clearly  I  see  that  the  beauty  of  the  visible  arts  is, 
as  the  beauty  of  music,  impressive  primarily,  and 
that  it  may  be  marred,  and  indeed  often  is  so,  by  any 
excess  of  intellectual  intention  on  the  part  of  the 
artist.  For  when  the  work  is  finished  it  has,  as  it 
were,  an  independent  life  of  its  own,  and  may  deliver 
a  message  far  other  than  that  which  was  put  into 
its  lips  to  say.  Sometimes,  when  I  listen  to  the 
overture  to  Tannhauser,  I  seem  indeed  to  see  that 
comely  knight  treading  delicately  on  the  flower- 
strewn  grass,  and  to  hear  the  voice  of  Venus  calling 
to  him  from  the  caverned  hill.  But  at  other  times 
it  speaks  to  me  of  a  thousand  different  things,  of 
myself,  it  may  be,  and  my  own  life,  or  of  the  lives 
of  others  whom  one  has  loved  and  grown  weary  of 
loving,  or  of  the  passions  that  man  has  known,  or  of 
the  passions  that  man  has  not  known,  and  so  has 
sought  for.  To-night  it  may  fill  one  with  that  EPQS 
TGN  AATNATQN,  that  *  Amour  de  ^Impossible,' 
which  falls  like  a  madness  on  many  who  think  they 


144  INTENTIONS 

live  securely  and  out  of  reach  of  harm,  so  that  they 
sicken  suddenly  with  the  poison  of  unlimited  desire, 
and,  in  the  infinite  pursuit  of  what  they  may  not 
obtain,  grow  faint  and  swoon  or  stumble.  To- 
morrow, like  the  music  of  which  Aristotle  and  Plato 
tell  us,  the  noble  Dorian  music  of  the  Greek,  it 
may  perform  the  office  of  a  physician,  and  give  us 
an  anodyne  against  pain,  and  heal  the  spirit  that  is 
wounded,  and  "bring  the  soul  into  harmony  with 
all  right  things."  And  what  is  true  about  music  is 
true  about  all  the  arts.  Beauty  has  as  many  mean- 
ings as  man  has  moods.  Beauty  is  the  symbol  of 
symbols.  Beauty  reveals  everything,  because  it 
expresses  nothing.  When  it  shows  us  itself,  it  shows 
us  the  whole  fiery-coloured  world. 

Ernest.  But  is  such  work  as  you  have  talked  about 
really  criticism? 

Gilbert.  It  is  the  highest  Criticism,  for  it  criticises 
not  merely  the  individual  work  of  art,  but  Beauty 
itself,  and  fills  with  wonder  a  form  which  the  artist 
may  have  left  void,  or  not  understood,  or  understood 
incompletely. 

Ernest.  The  highest  Criticism,  then,  is  more  cre- 
ative than  creation,  and  the  primary  aim  of  the  critic 
is  to  see  the  object  as  in  itself  it  really  is  not ;  that 
is  your  theory,  I  believe? 

Gilbert.  Yes,  that  is  my  theory.    To  the  critic  the 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  145 

work  of  art  is  simply  a  suggestion  for  a  new  work 
of  his  own,  that  need  not  necessarily  bear  any  ob- 
vious resemblance  to  the  thing  it  criticises.  The  one 
characteristic  of  a  beautiful  form  is  that  one  can  put 
into  it  whatever  one  wishes,  and  see  in  it  whatever 
one  chooses  to  see ;  and  the  Beauty,  that  gives  to 
creation  its  universal  and  aesthetic  element,  makes 
the  critic  a  creator  in  his  turn,  and  whispers  of  a 
thousand  different  things  which  were  not  present  in 
the  mind  of  him  who  carved  the  statue  or  painted 
the  panel  or  graved  the  gem. 

It  is  sometimes  said  by  those  who  understand 
neither  the  nature  of  the  highest  Criticism  nor  the 
charm  of  the  highest  Art,  that  the  pictures  that  the 
critic  loves  most  to  write  about  are  those  that  be- 
long to  the  anecdotage  of  painting,  and  that  deal 
with  scenes  taken  out  of  literature  or  history.  But 
this  is  not  so.  Indeed,  pictures  of  this  kind  are  far 
too  intelligible.  As  a  class,  they  rank  with  illustra- 
tions, and  even  considered  from  this  point  of  view 
are  failures,  as  they  do  not  stir  the  imagination,  but 
set  definite  bounds  to  it.  For  the  domain  of  the 
painter  is,  as  I  suggested  before,  widely  different 
from  that  of  the  poet.  To  the  latter  belongs  life 
in  its  full  and  absolute  entirety ;  not  merely  the 
beauty  that  men  look  at,  but  the  beauty  that  men 
listen  to  also ;  not  merely  the  momentary  grace  of 


146  INTENTIONS 

form  or  the  transient  gladness  of  colour,  but  the 
whole  sphere  of  feeling,  the  perfect  cycle  of 
thought.  The  painter  is  so  far  limited  that  it  is 
only  through  the  mask  of  the  body  that  he  can 
show  us  the  mystery  of  the  soul ;  only  through 
conventional  images  that  he  can  handle  ideas ;  only 
through  its  physical  equivalents  that  he  can  deal 
with  psychology.  And  how  inadequately  does  he 
do  it  then,  asking  us  to  accept  the  torn  turban  of 
the  Moor  for  the  noble  rage  of  Othello,  or  a  dotard 
in  a  storm  for  the  wild  madness  of  Lear!  Yet  it 
seems  as  if  nothing  could  stop  him.  Most  of  our 
elderly  English  painters  spend  their  wicked  and 
wasted  lives  in  poaching  upon  the  domain  of  the 
poets,  marring  their  motives  by  clumsy  treatment, 
and  striving  to  render,  by  visible  form  or  colour, 
the  marvel  of  what  is  invisible,  the  splendour  of 
what  is  not  seen.  Their  pictures  are,  as  a  natural 
consequence,  insufferably  tedious.  They  have  de- 
graded the  visible  arts  into  the  obvious  arts,  and 
the  one  thing  not  worth  looking  at  is  the  obvious. 
I  do  not  say  that  poet  and  painter  may  not  treat  of 
the  same  subject.  They  have  always  done  so,  and 
will  always  do  so.  But  while  the  poet  can  be  picto- 
rial or  not,  as  he  chooses,  the  painter  must  be  pic- 
torial always.  For  a  painter  is  limited,  not  to  what  he 
sees  in  nature,  but  to  what  upon  canvas  may  be  seen. 


THE    CRITIC    AS    ARTIST  147 

And  so,  my  dear  Ernest,  pictures  of  this  kind 
will  not  really  fascinate  the  critic.  He  will  turn 
from  them  to  such  works  as  make  him  brood  and 
dream  and  fancy,  to  works  that  possess  the  subtle 
quality  of  suggestion,  and  seem  to  tell  one  that 
even  from  them  there  is  an  escape  into  a  wider 
world.  It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  tragedy  of  an 
artist's  life  is  that  he  cannot  realize  his  ideal.  But 
the  true  tragedy  that  dogs  the  steps  of  most  artists 
is  that  they  realize  their  ideal  too  absolutely.  For, 
when  the  ideal  is  realized,  it  is  robbed  of  its  wonder 
and  its  mystery,  and  becomes  simply  a  new  start- 
ing-point for  an  ideal  that  is  other  than  itself.  This 
is  the  reason  why  music  is  the  perfect  type  of  art. 
Music  can  never  reveal  its  ultimate  secret.  This, 
also,  is  the  explanation  of  the  value  of  limitations 
in  art.  The  sculptor  gladly  surrenders  imitative 
colour,  and  the  painter  the  actual  dimensions  of 
form,  because  by  such  renunciations  they  are  able 
to  avoid  too  definite  a  presentation  of  the  Real, 
which  would  be  mere  imitation,  and  too  definite  a 
realization  of  the  Ideal,  which  would  be  too  purely 
intellectual.  It  is  through  its  very  incompleteness 
that  Art  becomes  complete  in  beauty,  and  so  ad- 
dresses itself,  not  to  the  faculty  of  recognition  nor 
to  the  faculty  of  reason,  but  to  the  aesthetic  sense 
alone,  which,  while  accepting  both  reason  and  rec- 


148  INTENTIONS 

ognition  as  stages  of  apprehension,  subordinates 
them  both  to  a  pure  synthetic  impression  of  the 
work  of  art  as  a  whole,  and,  taking  whatever  alien 
emotional  elements  the  work  may  possess,  uses  their 
very  complexity  as  a  means  by  which  a  richer  unity 
may  be  added  to  the  ultimate  impression  itself. 
You  see,  then,  how  it  is  that  the  aesthetic  critic  re- 
jects those  obvious  modes  of  art  that  have  but 
one  message  to  deliver,  and  having  delivered  it  be- 
come dumb  and  sterile,  and  seeks  rather  for  such 
modes  as  suggest  reverie  and  mood,  and  by  their 
imaginative  beauty  make  all  interpretations  true 
and  no  interpretation  final.  Some  resemblance,  no 
doubt,  the  creative  work  of  the  critic  will  have  to 
the  work  that  has  stirred  him  to  creation,  but  it  will 
be  such  resemblance  as  exists,  not  between  Nature 
and  the  mirror  that  the  painter  of  landscape  or  fig- 
ure may  be  supposed  to  hold  up  to  her,  but 
between  Nature  and  the  work  of  the  decorative 
artist.  Just  as  on  the  flowerless  carpets  of  Persia, 
tulip  and  rose  blossom  indeed  and  are  lovely  to 
look  on,  though  they  are  not  reproduced  in  visible 
shape  or  line;  just  as  the  pearl  and  purple  of  the 
sea-shell  is  echoed  in  the  church  of  St.  Mark  at 
Venice;  just  as  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  the  wondrous 
chapel  of  Ravenna  is  made  gorgeous  by  the  gold 
and    green    and    sapphire    of    the    peacock's    tail, 


THE    CRITIC   AS   ARTIST  1 49 

though  the  birds  of  Juno  fly  not  across  it;  so  the 
critic  reproduces  the  work  that  he  criticises  in  a 
mode  that  is  never  imitative,  and  part  of  whose 
charm  may  really  consist  in  the  rejection  of  resem- 
blance, and  shows  us  in  this  way  not  merely  the 
meaning  but  also  the  mystery  of  Beauty,  and,  by 
transforming  each  art  into  literature,  solves  once  for 
all  the  problem  of  Art's  unity. 

But  I  see  it  is  time  for  supper.  After  we  have 
discussed  some  Chambertin  and  a  few  ortolans,  we 
will  pass  on  to  the  question  of  the  critic  considered 
in  the  light  of  the  interpreter. 

Ernest.  Ah!  you  admit,  then,  that  the  critic  may 
occasionally  be  allowed  to  see  the  object  as  in  itself 
it  really  is. 

Gilbert.  I  am  not  quite  sure.  Perhaps,  I  may 
admit  it  after  supper.  There  is  a  subtle  influence 
in  supper. 


THE    CRITIC    AS    ARTIST 

WITH  SOME  REMARKS  UPON  THE 

IMPORTANCE  OF  DISCUSSING 

EVERYTHING 


HA  DIALOGUE.  Part  II. 
Persons  :  the  same.  Scene : 
the  same. 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST 

Ernest.  The  ortolans  were  delightful,  and  the 
Chambertin  perfect.  And  now  let  us  return  to  the 
point  at  issue. 

Gilbert.  Ah !  don't  let  us  do  that.  Conversation 
should  touch  everything,  but  should  concentrate  it- 
self on  nothing.  Let  us  talk  about  Moral  Indigna- 
tion, its  Cause  and  Cure,  a  subject  on  which  I  think 
of  writing :  or  about  The  Survival  of  Thersites,  as 
shown  by  the  English  comic  papers ;  or  about  any 
topic  that  may  turn  up. 

Ernest.  No :  I  want  to  discuss  the  critic  and 
criticism.  You  have  told  me  that  the  highest 
criticism  deals  with  art,  not  as  expressive,  but  as  im- 
pressive purely,  and  is  consequently  both  creative 
and  independent — is,  in  fact,  an  art  by  itself,  occu- 
pying the  same  relation  to  creative  work  that  creative 
work  does  to  the  visible  world  of  form  and  colour, 
or  the   unseen   world   of  passion  and  of  thought. 

i53 


154  INTENTIONS 

Well,  now  tell  me,  will  not  the  critic  be  sometimes 
a  real  interpreter? 

Gilbert.  Yes ;  the  critic  will  be  an  interpreter,  if 
he  chooses.  He  can  pass  from  his  synthetic  im- 
pression of  the  work  of  art  as  a  whole,  to  an  analy- 
sis or  exposition  of  the  work  itself,  and  in  this  lower 
sphere,  as  I  hold  it  to  be,  there  are  many  delightful 
things  to  be  said  and  done.  Yet  his  object  will 
not  always  be  to  explain  the  work  of  art.  He  may 
seek  rather  to  deepen  its  mystery,  to  raise  round  it, 
and  round  its  maker,  that  mist  of  wonder  which  is 
dear  to  both  gods  and  worshippers  alike.  Ordinary 
people  are  "terribly  at  ease  in  Zion."  They  pro- 
pose to  walk  arm  in  arm  with  the  poets,  and  have  a 
glib  ignorant  way  of  saying  "  Why  should  we  read 
what  is  written  about  Shakespeare  and  Milton? 
We  can  read  the  plays  and  the  poems.  That  is 
enough."  But  an  appreciation  of  Milton  is,  as  the 
late  Rector  of  Lincoln  remarked  once,  the  reward 
of  consummate  scholarship.  And  he  who  desires 
to  understand  Shakespeare  truly  must  understand 
the  relations  in  which  Shakespeare  stood  to  the 
Renaissance  and  the  Reformation,  to  the  age  of 
Elizabeth  and  the  age  of  James ;  he  must  be  famil- 
iar with  the  history  of  the  struggle  for  supremacy 
between  the  old  classical  forms  and  the  new  spirit 
of   romance,   between   the   school   of    Sidney,   and 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  55 

Daniel,  and  Jonson,  and  the  school  of  Marlowe  and 
Marlowe's  greater  son ;  he  must  know  the  mate- 
rials that  were  at  Shakespeare's  disposal,  and  the 
method  in  which  he  used  them,  and  the  conditions 
of  theatric  presentation  in  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth century,  their  limitations  and  their  oppor- 
tunities for  freedom,  and  the  literary  criticism  of 
Shakespeare's  day,  its  aim  and  modes  and  canons ; 
he  must  study  the  English  language  in  its  progress, 
and  blank  or  rhymed  verse  in  its  various  develop- 
ments ;  he  must  study  the  Greek  drama,  and  the 
connection  between  the  art  of  the  creator  of  the 
Agamemnon  and  the  art  of  the  creator  of  Macbeth ; 
in  a  word,  he  must  be  able  to  bind  Elizabethan 
London  to  the  Athens  of  Pericles,  and  to  learn 
Shakespeare's  true  position  in  the  history  of  Euro- 
pean drama  and  the  drama  of  the  world.  The 
critic  will  certainly  be  an  interpreter,  but  he  will  not 
treat  Art  as  a  riddling  Sphinx,  whose  shallow  secret 
may  be  guessed  and  revealed  by  one  whose  feet  are 
wounded  and  who  knows  not  his  name.  Rather, 
he  will  look  upon  Art  as  a  goddess  whose  mystery 
it  is  his  province  to  intensify,  and  whose  majesty 
his  privilege  to  make  more  marvellous  in  the  eyes 
of  men. 

And  here,   Ernest,   this  strange   thing  happens. 
The  critic  will  indeed  be  an  interpreter,  but  he  will 


156  INTENTIONS 

not  be  an  interpreter  in  the  sense  of  one  who  sim- 
ply repeats  in  another  form  a  message  that  has 
been  put  into  his  lips  to  say.  For,  just  as  it  is 
only  by  contact  with  the  art  of  foreign  nations  that 
the  art  of  a  country  gains  that  individual  and  sep- 
arate life  that  we  call  nationality,  so,  by  curious 
inversion,  it  is  only  by  intensifying  his  own  person- 
ality that  the  critic  can  interpret  the  personality 
and  work  of  others,  and  the  more  strongly  this 
personality  enters  into  the  interpretation  the  more 
real  the  interpretation  becomes,  the  more  satisfy- 
ing, the  more  convincing,  and  the  more  true. 

Ernest.  I  would  have  said  that  personality  would 
have  been  a  disturbing  element. 

Gilbert.  No ;  it  is  an  element  of  revelation.  If 
you  wish  to  understand  others  you  must  intensify 
your  own  individualism. 

Ernest.  What,  then,  is  the  result? 

Gilbert.  I  will  tell  you,  and  perhaps  I  can  tell 
you  best  by  definite  example.  It  seems  to  me 
that,  while  the  literary  critic  stands  of  course  first, 
as  having  the  wider  range,  and  larger  vision,  and 
nobler  material,  each  of  the  arts  has  a  critic,  as  it 
were,  assigned  to  it.  The  actor  is  a  critic  of  the 
drama.  He  shows  the  poet's  work  under  new  con- 
ditions, and  by  a  message  special  to  himself.  He 
takes  the  written  word,   and   action,  gesture,   and 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  $7 

voice  become  the  media  of  revelation.  The  singer, 
or  the  player  on  lute  and  viol,  is  the  critic  of 
music.  The  etcher  of  a  picture  robs  the  painting 
of  its  fair  colours,  but  shows  us  by  the  use  of  a 
new  material  its  true  colour-quality,  its  tones  and 
values,  and  the  relations  of  its  masses,  and  so  is,  in 
his  way,  a  critic  of  it,  for  the  critic  is  he  who  ex- 
hibits to  us  a  work  of  art  in  a  form  different  from 
that  of  the  work  itself,  and  the  employment  of  a 
new  material  is  a  critical  as  well  as  a  creative  ele- 
ment. Sculpture,  too,  has  its  critic,  who  may  be 
either  the  carver  of  a  gem,  as  he  was  in  Greek 
days,  or  some  painter  like  Mantegna,  who  sought 
to  reproduce  on  canvas  the  beauty  of  plastic  line 
and  the  symphonic  dignity  of  processional  bas- 
relief.  And  in  the  case  of  all  these  creative  critics 
of  art  it  is  evident  that  personality  is  an  absolute 
essential  for  any  real  interpretation.  When  Rubin- 
stein plays  to  us  the  Sonata  Appassionata  of  Bee- 
thoven, he  gives  us  not  merely  Beethoven,  but 
also  himself,  and  so  gives  us  Beethoven  absolutely 
— Beethoven  reinterpreted  through  a  rich  artistic 
nature,  and  made  vivid  and  wonderful  to  us  by  a 
new  and  intense  personality.  When  a  great  actor 
plays  Shakespeare  we  have  the  same  experience. 
His  own  individuality  becomes  a  vital  part  of 
the    interpretation.       People    sometimes    say   that 


158  INTENTIONS 

actors  give  us  their  own  Hamlets  and  not  Shake- 
speare's; and  this  fallacy — for  it  is  a  fallacy — is,  I 
regret  to  say,  repeated  by  that  charming  and  grace- 
ful writer  who  has  lately  deserted  the  turmoil  of 
literature  for  the  peace  of  the  House  of  Commons — 
I  mean  the  author  of  Obiter  Dicta.  In  point  of 
fact,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  Shakespeare's  Ham- 
let. If  Hamlet  has  something  of  the  definiteness 
of  a  work  of  art,  he  has  also  all  the  obscurity  that 
belongs  to  life.  There  are  as  many  Hamlets  as 
there  are  melancholies. 

Ernest.  As  many  Hamlets  as  there  are  melan- 
cholies ? 

Gilbert.  Yes  :  and  as  art  springs  from  personality, 
so  it  is  only  to  personality  that  it  can  be  revealed, 
and  from  the  meeting  of  the  two  comes  right  inter- 
pretative criticism. 

Ei'iiest.  The  critic,  then,  considered  as  the  inter- 
preter, will  give  no  less  than  he  receives,  and  lend  as 
much  as  he  borrows? 

Gilbert.  He  will  be  always  showing  us  the  work 
of  art  in  some  new  relation  to  our  age.  He  will  al- 
ways be  reminding  us  that  great  works  of  art  are 
living  things — are,  in  fact,  the  only  things  that  live. 
So  much,  indeed,  will  he  feel  this,  that  I  am  certain 
that,  as  civilization  progresses  and  we  become  more 
highly  organized,  the  elect  spirits  of   each  age,  the 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  59 

critical  and  cultured  spirits,  will  grow  less  and  less 
interested  in  actual  life,  and  will  seek  to  gain  their  im- 
pressions almost  entirely  from  what  Art  has  touched. 
For  Life  is  terribly  deficient  in  form.  Its  catastro- 
phes happen  in  the  wrong  way  and  to  the  wrong 
people.  There  is  a  grotesque  horror  about  its  come- 
dies, and  its  tragedies  seem  to  culminate  in  farce. 
One  is  always  wounded  when  one  approaches  it. 
Things  last  either  too  long,  or  not  long  enough. 

Ernest.  Poor  life !  Poor  human  life !  Are  you 
not  even  touched  by  the  tears  that  the  Roman  poet 
tells  us  are  part  of  its  essence? 

Gilbert.  Too  quickly  touched  by  them,  I  fear.  For 
when  one  looks  back  upon  the  life  that  was  so  vivid 
in  its  emotional  intensity,  and  filled  with  such  fervent 
moments  of  ecstasy  or  of  joy,  it  all  seems  to  be  a 
dream  and  an  illusion.  What  are  the  unreal  things, 
but  the  passions  that  once  burned  one  like  fire? 
What  are  the  incredible  things,  but  the  things  that 
one  has  faithfully  believed  ?  What  are  the  improb- 
able things  ?  The  things  that  one  has  done  oneself. 
No,  Ernest;  life  cheats  us  with  shadows,  like  a 
puppet-master.  We  ask  it  for  pleasure.  It  gives 
it  to  us,  with  bitterness  and  disappointment  in  its 
train.  We  come  across  some  noble  grief  that  we 
think  will  lend  the  purple  dignity  of  tragedy  to  our 
days,  but   it  passes  away  from    us,  and  things  less 


160  INTENTIONS 

noble  take  its  place,  and  on  some  grey  windy- 
dawn,  or  odorous  eve  of  silence  and  of  silver,  we 
find  ourselves  looking  with  callous  wonder,  or  dull 
heart  of  stone,  at  the  tress  of  gold-flecked  hair  that 
we  had  once  so  wildly  worshipped  and  so  madly 
kissed. 

Ernest.  Life,  then,  is  a  failure? 

Gilbert.  From  the  artistic  point  of  view,  certainly. 
And  the  chief  thing  that  makes  life  a  failure  from  this 
artistic  point  of  view  is  the  thing  that  lends  to  life  its 
sordid  security,  the  fact  that  one  can  never  repeat 
exactly  the  same  emotion.  How  different  it  is  in  the 
world  of  Art!  On  a  shelf  of  the  bookcase  behind 
you  stands  the  Divine  Comedy,  and  I  know  that,  if  I 
open  it  at  a  certain  place,  I  shall  be  filled  with  a 
fierce  hatred  of  some  one  who  has  never  wronged  me, 
or  stirred  by  a  great  love  for  some  one  whom  I  shall 
never  see.  There  is  no  mood  or  passion  that  Art 
cannot  give  us,  and  those  of  us  who  have  discovered 
her  secret  can  settle  beforehand  what  our  experiences 
are  going  to  be.  We  can  choose  our  day  and  select 
our  hour.  We  can  say  to  ourselves,  "  To-morrow, 
at  dawn,  we  shall  walk  with  grave  Virgil  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,"  and  lo!  the 
dawn  finds  us  in  the  obscure  wood,  and  the  Mantuan 
stands  by  our  side.  We  pass  through  the  gate  of  the 
legend  fatal  to  hope,  and  with  pity  or  with  joy  be- 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  l6l 

hold  the  horror  of  another  world.  The  hypocrites 
go  by,  with  their  painted  faces  and  their  cowls  of 
gilded  lead.  Out  of  the  ceaseless  winds  that  drive 
them,  the  carnal  look  at  us,  and  we  watch  the  heretic 
rending  his  flesh,  and  the  glutton  lashed  by  the  rain. 
We  break  the  withered  branches  from  the  tree  in  the 
grove  of  the  Harpies,  and  each  dull-hued  poisonous 
twig  bleeds  with  red  blood  before  us,  and  cries  aloud 
with  bitter  cries.  Out  of  a  horn  of  fire  Odysseus 
speaks  to  us,  and  when  from  his  sepulchre  of  flame 
the  great  Ghibelline  rises,  the  pride  that  triumphs 
over  the  torture  of  that  bed  becomes  ours  for  a  mo- 
ment. Through  the  dim  purple  air  fly  those  who 
have  stained  the  world  with  the  beauty  of  their 
sin,  and  in  the  pit  of  loathsome  disease,  dropsy- 
stricken  and  swollen  of  body  into  the  semblance  of 
a  monstrous  lute,  lies  Adamo  di  Brescia,  the  coiner 
of  false  coin.  He  bids  us  listen  to  his  misery ;  we 
stop,  and  with  dry  and  gaping  lips  he  tells  us  how  he 
dreams  day  and  night  of  the  brooks  of  clear  water 
that  in  cool  dewy  channels  gush  down  the  green 
Casentine  hills.  Sinon,  the  false  Greek  of  Troy, 
mocks  at  him.  He  smites  him  in  the  face,  and  they 
wrangle.  We  are  fascinated  by  their  shame,  and 
loiter,  till  Virgil  chides  us  and  leads  us  away  to  that 
city  turreted  by  giants  where  great  Nimrod  blows 
his  horn.     Terrible  things  are  in  store  for  us,  and  we 


1 62  INTENTIONS 

go  to  meet  them  in  Dante's  raiment  and  with  Dante's 
heart.  We  traverse  the  marshes  of  the  Styx,  and 
Argenti  swims  to  the  boat  through  the  slimy 
waves.  He  calls  to  us,  and  we  reject  him.  When 
we  hear  the  voice  of  his  agony  we  are  glad,  and 
Virgil  praises  us  for  the  bitterness  of  our  scorn.  We 
tread  upon  the  cold  crystal  of  Cocytus,  in  which  trai- 
tors stick  like  straws  in  glass.  Our  foot  strikes  against 
the  head  of  Bocca.  He  will  not  tell  us  his  name, 
and  we  tear  the  hair  in  handfuls  from  the  screaming 
skull.  Alberigo  prays  us  to  break  the  ice  upon  his 
face  that  he  may  weep  a  little.  We  pledge  our 
word  to  him,  and  when  he  has  uttered  his  dolorous 
tale  we  deny  the  word  that  we  have  spoken,  and 
pass  from  him  ;  such  cruelty  being  courtesy  indeed, 
for  who  more  base  than  he  who  has  mercy  for  the 
condemned  of  God?  In  the  jaws  of  Lucifer  we  see 
the  man  who  sold  Christ,  and  in  the  jaws  of  Lucifer 
the  men  who  slew  Caesar.  We  tremble,  and  come 
forth  to  rebehold  the  stars. 

In  the  land  of  Purgation  the  air  is  freer,  and  the 
holy  mountain  rises  into  the  pure  light  of  day.  There 
is  peace  for  us,  and  for  those  who  for  a  season  abide 
in  it  there  is  some  peace  also,  though,  pale  from  the 
poison  of  the  Maremma,  Madonna  Pia  passes  before 
us,  and  Ismene,  with  the  sorrow  of  earth  still  linger- 
ing about  her,  is  there.      Soul  after  soul  makes  us 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 63 

share  in  some  repentance  or  some  joy.  He  whom 
the  mourning  of  his  widow  taught  to  drink  the  sweet 
wormwood  of  pain,  tells  us  of  Nella  praying  in  her 
lonely  bed,  and  we  learn  from  the  mouth  of  Buon- 
conte  how  a  single  tear  may  save  a  dying  sinner  from 
the  fiend.  Sordello,  that  noble  and  disdainful  Lom- 
bard, eyes  us  from  afar  like  a  couchant  lion.  When 
he  learns  that  Virgil  is  one  of  Mantua's  citizens,  he 
falls  upon  his  neck,  and  when  he  learns  that  he  is  the 
singer  of  Rome  he  falls  before  his  feet.  In  that  val- 
ley whose  grass  and  flowers  are  fairer  than  cleft 
emerald  and  Indian  wood,  and  brighter  than  scarlet 
and  silver,  they  are  singing  who  in  the  world  were 
kings ;  but  the  lips  of  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg  do  not 
move  to  the  music  of  the  others,  and  Philip  of  France 
beats  his  breast  and  Henry  of  England  sits  alone. 
On  and  on  we  go,  climbing  the  marvellous  stair,  and 
the  stars  become  larger  than  their  wont,  and  the  song 
of  the  kings  grows  faint,  and  at  length  we  reach  the 
seven  trees  of  gold  and  the  garden  of  the  Earthly 
Paradise.  In  a  griffin-drawn  chariot  appears  one 
whose  brows  are  bound  with  olive,  who  is  veiled  in 
white,  and  mantled  in  green,  and  robed  in  a  vesture 
that  is  coloured  like  live  fire.  The  ancient  flame 
wakes  within  us.  Our  blood  quickens  through  ter- 
rible pulses.  We  recognize  her.  It  is  Beatrice,  the  wo- 
man we  have  worshipped.    The  ice  congealed  about 


164  INTENTIONS 

our  heart  melts.  Wild  tears  of  anguish  break  from 
us,  and  we  bow  our  forehead  to  the  ground,  for  we 
know  that  we  have  sinned.  When  we  have  done  pen- 
ance, and  are  purified,  and  have  drunk  of  the  foun- 
tain of  Lethe  and  bathed  in  the  fountain  of  Eunoe, 
the  mistress  of  our  soul  raises  us  to  the  Paradise  of 
Heaven.  Out  of  that  eternal  pearl,  the  moon,  the 
face  of  Piccarda  Donati  leans  to  us.  Her  beauty 
troubles  us  for  a  moment,  and  when,  like  a  thing  that 
falls  through  water,  she  passes  away,  we  gaze  after 
her  with  wistful  eyes.  The  sweet  planet  of  Venus 
is  full  of  lovers.  Cunizza,  the  sister  of  Ezzelin,  the 
lady  of  Sordello's  heart,  is  there,  and  Folco,  the  pas- 
sionate singer  of  Provence,  who  in  sorrow  for  Azalais 
forsook  the  world,  and  the  Canaanitish  harlot  whose 
soul  was  the  first  that  Christ  redeemed.  Joachim  of 
Flora  stands  in  the  sun,  and,  in  the  sun,  Aquinas 
recounts  the  story  of  St.  Francis  and  Bonaventure 
the  story  of  St.  Dominic.  Through  the  burning 
rubies  of  Mars,  Cacciaguida  approaches.  He  tells 
us  of  the  arrow  that  is  shot  from  the  bow  of  exile,  and 
how  salt  tastes  the  bread  of  another,  and  how  steep 
are  the  stairs  in  the  house  of  a  stranger.  In  Saturn 
the  souls  sing  not,  and  even  she  who  guides  us  dare 
not  smile.  On  a  ladder  of  gold  the  flames  rise  and 
fall.  At  last,  we  see  the  pageant  of  the  Mystical 
Rose.     Beatrice  fixes  her  eyes  upon  the  face  of  God, 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 65 

to  turn  them  not  again.  The  beatific  vision  is  granted 
to  us ;  we  know  the  Love  that  moves  the  sun  and  all 
the  stars. 

Yes,  we  can  put  the  earth  back  six  hundred  courses 
and  make  ourselves  one  with  the  great  Florentine, 
kneel  at  the  same  altar  with  him,  and  share  his  rap- 
ture and  his  scorn.  And  if  we  grow  tired  of  an  antique 
time,  and  desire  to  realize  our  own  age  in  all  its 
weariness  and  sin,  are  there  not  books  that  can  make 
us  live  more  in  one  single  hour  than  life  can  make  us 
live  in  a  score  of  shameful  years?  Close  to  your 
hand  lies  a  little  volume,  bound  in  some  Nile-green 
skin  that  has  been  powdered  with  gilded  nenuphars 
and  smoothed  with  hard  ivory.  It  is  the  book  that 
Gautier  loved,  it  is  Baudelaire's  masterpiece.  Open 
it  at  that  sad  madrigal  that  begins 

"  Que  m'importe  que  tu  sois  sage? 
Sois  belle  !  et  sois  triste  !  " 

and  you  will  find  yourself  worshipping  sorrow  as 
you  have  never  worshipped  joy.  Pass  on  to  the 
poem  on  the  man  who  tortures  himself,  let  its  subtle 
music  steal  into  your  brain  and  colour  your  thoughts, 
and  you  will  become  for  a  moment  what  he  was  who 
wrote  it ;  nay,  not  for  a  moment  only,  but  for  many 
barren  moonlit  nights  and  sunless  sterile  days  will  a 
despair  that  is  not  your  own  make  its  dwelling  within 


1 66  INTENTIONS 

you,  and  the  misery  of  another  gnaw  your  heart 
away.  Read  the  whole  book,  suffer  it  to  tell  even  one 
of  its  secrets  to  your  soul,  and  your  soul  will  grow 
eager  to  know  more,  and  will  feed  upon  poisonous 
honey,  and  seek  to  repent  of  strange  crimes  of  which 
it  is  guiltless,  and  to  make  atonement  for  terrible 
pleasures  that  it  has  never  known.  And  then,  when 
you  are  tired  of  these  flowers  of  evil,  turn  to  the 
flowers  that  grow  in  the  garden  of  Perdita,  and  in 
their  dew-drenched  chalices  cool  your  fevered  brow, 
and  let  their  loveliness  heal  and  restore  your  soul ; 
or  wake  from  his  forgotten  tomb  the  sweet  Syrian, 
Meleager,  and  bid  the  lover  of  Heliodore  make  you 
music,  for  he  too  has  flowers  in  his  song,  red  pome- 
granate-blossoms, and  irises  that  smell  of  myrrh, 
ringed  daffodils  and  dark-blue  hyacinths,  and  mar- 
joram and  crinkled  ox-eyes.  Dear  to  him  was  the 
perfume  of  the  bean-field  at  evening,  and  dear  to  him 
the  odorous  eared-spikenard  that  grew  on  the  Syrian 
hills,  and  the  fresh  green  thyme,  the  wine-cup's 
charm.  The  feet  of  his  love  as  she  walked  in  the 
garden  were  like  lilies  set  upon  lilies.  Softer  than 
sleep-laden  poppy-petals  were  her  lips,  softer  than 
violets  and  as  scented.  The  flame-like  crocus  sprang 
from  the  grass  to  look  at  her.  For  her  the  slim 
narcissus  stored  the  cool  rain ;  and  for  her  the 
anemones    forgot    the   Sicilian    winds    that    wooed 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 67 

them.  And  neither  crocus,  nor  anemone,  nor  nar- 
cissus was  as  fair  as  she  was. 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  this  transference  of  emotion. 
We  sicken  with  the  same  maladies  as  the  poets,  and 
the  singer  lends  us  his  pain.  Dead  lips  have  their 
message  for  us,  and  hearts  that  have  fallen  to  dust 
can  communicate  their  joy.  We  run  to  kiss  the 
bleeding  mouth  of  Fantine,  and  we  follow  Manon 
Lescaut  over  the  whole  world.  Ours  is  the  love- 
madness  of  the  Tyrian,  and  the  terror  of  Orestes  is 
ours  also.  There  is  no  passion  that  we  cannot  feel, 
no  pleasure  that  we  may  not  gratify,  and  we  can 
choose  the  time  of  our  initiation  and  the  time  of 
our  freedom  also.  Life!  Life!  Don't  let  us  go  to 
life  for  our  fulfilment  or  our  experience.  It  is  a  thing 
narrowed  by  circumstances,  incoherent  in  its  utter- 
ance, and  without  that  fine  correspondence  of  form 
and  spirit  which  is  the  only  thing  that  can  satisfy 
the  artistic  and  critical  temperament.  It  makes  us 
pay  too  high  a  price  for  its  wares,  and  we  purchase 
the  meanest  of  its  secrets  at  a  cost  that  is  monstrous 
and  infinite. 

Ernest.  Must  we  go,  then,  to  Art  for  everything? 

Gilbert.  For  everything.  Because  Art  does  not 
hurt  us.  The  tears  that  we  shed  at  a  play  are  a 
type  of  the  exquisite  sterile  emotions  that  it  is  the 
function  of  Art  to  awaken.     We  weep,  but  we  are 


1 68  INTENTIONS 

not  wounded.  We  grieve,  but  our  grief  is  not  bitter. 
In  the  actual  life  of  man,  sorrow,  as  Spinoza  says 
somewhere,  is  a  passage  to  a  lesser  perfection.  But 
the  sorrow  with  which  Art  fills  us  both  purifies  and 
initiates,  if  I  may  quote  once  more  from  the  great 
art-critic  of  the  Greeks.  It  is  through  Art,  and 
through  Art  only,  that  we  can  realize  our  perfec- 
tion ;  through  Art,  and  through  Art  only,  that  we 
can  shield  ourselves  from  the  sordid  perils  of  actual 
existence.  This  results  not  merely  from  the  fact 
that  nothing  that  one  can  imagine  is  worth  doing, 
and  that  one  can  imagine  everything,  but  from  the 
subtle  law  that  emotional  forces,  like  the  forces  of 
the  physical  sphere,  are  limited  in  extent  and  energy. 
One  can  feel  so  much,  and  no  more.  And  how  can 
it  matter  with  what  pleasure  life  tries  to  tempt  one, 
or  with  what  pain  it  seeks  to  maim  and  mar  one's 
soul,  if  in  the  spectacle  of  the  lives  of  those  who  have 
never  existed  one  has  found  the  true  secret  of  joy, 
and  wept  away  one's  tears  over  their  deaths  who, 
like  Cordelia  and  the  daughter  of  Brabantio,  can 
never  die? 

Ernest.  Stop  a  moment.  It  seems  to  me  that  in 
everything  that  you  have  said  there  is  something 
radically  immoral. 

Gilbert.  All  art  is  immoral. 

Ernest.  All  art? 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 69 

Gilbert.  Yes.  For  emotion  for  the  sake  of 
emotion  is  the  aim  of  art,  and  emotion  for  the  sake 
of  action  is  the  aim  of  life,  and  of  that  practical 
organization  of  life  that  we  call  society.  Society, 
which  is  the  beginning  and  basis  of  morals,  exists 
simply  for  the  concentration  of  human  energy,  and 
in  order  to  ensure  its  own  continuance  and  healthy 
stability  it  demands,  and  no  doubt  rightly  demands, 
of  each  of  its  citizens  that  he  should  contribute  some 
form  of  productive  labor  to  the  common  weal,  and 
toil  and  travail  that  the  day's  work  may  be  done. 
Society  often  forgives  the  criminal ;  it  never  forgives 
the  dreamer.  The  beautiful  sterile  emotions  that 
art  excites  in  us,  are  hateful  in  its  eyes,  and  so 
completely  are  people  dominated  by  the  tyranny  of 
this  dreadful  social  ideal  that  they  are  always  com- 
ing shamelessly  up  to  one  at  Private  Views  and 
other  places  that  are  open  to  the  general  public, 
and  saying  in  a  loud  stentorian  voice,  "  What  are 
you  doing?"  whereas  "What  are  you  thinking?" 
is  the  only  question  that  any  single  civilized  being 
should  ever  be  allowed  to  whisper  to  another.  They 
mean  well,  no  doubt,  these  honest  beaming  folk. 
Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  why  they  are  so  ex- 
cessively tedious.  But  some  one  should  teach  them 
that  while,  in  the  opinion  of  society,  Contemplation 
is  the  gravest  sin  of  which  any  citizen  can  be  guilty, 


1 70  INTENTIONS 

in  the  opinion  of  the  highest  culture  it  is  the  proper 
occupation  of  man. 

Ernest.    Contemplation  ? 

Gilbert.  Contemplation.  I  said  to  you  some  time 
ago  that  it  was  far  more  difficult  to  talk  about  a 
thing  than  to  do  it.  Let  me  say  to  you  now  that 
to  do  nothing  at  all  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the 
world,  the  most  difficult  and  the  most  intellectual. 
To  Plato,  with  his  passion  for  wisdom,  this  was  the 
noblest  form  of  energy.  To  Aristotle,  with  his 
passion  for  knowledge,  this  was  the  noblest  form  of 
energy  also.  It  was  to  this  that  the  passion  for 
holiness  led  the  saint  and  the  mystic  of  mediaeval 
days. 

Ernest.  We  exist,  then,  to  do  nothing? 

Gilbert.  It  is  to  do  nothing  that  the  elect  exist. 
Action  is  limited  and  relative.  Unlimited  and  ab- 
solute is  the  vision  of  him  who  sits  at  ease  and 
watches,  who  walks  in  loneliness  and  dreams.  But 
we  who  are  born  at  the  close  of  this  wonderful  age, 
are  at  once  too  cultured  and  too  critical,  too  intel- 
lectually subtle  and  too  curious  of  exquisite  plea- 
sures, to  accept  any  speculations  about  life  in  ex- 
change for  life  itself.  To  us  the  '  citta  divina  '  is 
colourless,  and  the  '  fruitio  Dei '  without  meaning. 
Metaphysics  do  not  satisfy  our  temperaments,  and 
religious  ecstasy  is  out  of  date.    The  world  through 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  71 

which  the  Academic  philosopher  becomes  "  the 
spectator  of  all  time  and  of  all  existence  "  is  not 
really  an  ideal  world,  but  simply  a  world  of  abstract 
ideas.  When  we  enter  it,  we  starve  amidst  the  chill 
mathematics  of  thought.  The  courts  of  the  city  of 
God  are  not  open  to  us  now.  Its  gates  are  guarded 
by  Ignorance,  and  to  pass  them  we  have  to  surren- 
der all  that  in  our  nature  is  most  divine.  It  is 
enough  that  our  fathers  believed.  They  have  ex- 
hausted the  faith-faculty  of  the  species.  Their 
legacy  to  us  is  the  scepticism  of  which  they  were 
afraid.  Had  they  put  it  into  words,  it  might  not 
live  within  us  as  thought.  No,  Ernest,  no.  We 
cannot  go  back  to  the  saint.  There  is  far  more  to 
be  learned  from  the  sinner.  We  cannot  go  back  to 
the  philosopher,  and  the  mystic  leads  us  astray. 
Who,  as  Mr.  Pater  suggests  somewhere,  would  ex- 
change the  curve  of  a  single  rose-leaf  for  that  form- 
less intangible  Being  which  Plato  rates  so  high? 
What  to  us  is  the  Illumination  of  Philo,  the  Abyss 
of  Eckhart,  the  Vision  of  Bohme,  the  monstrous 
Heaven  itself  that  was  revealed  to  Swedenborg's 
blinded  eyes  ?  Such  things  are  less  than  the  yellow 
trumpet  of  one  daffodil  of  the  field,  far  less  than  the 
meanest  of  the  visible  arts;  for,  just  as  Nature  is 
matter  struggling  into  mind,  so  Art  is  mind  ex- 
pressing itself  under  the  conditions  of  matter,  and 


172  INTENTIONS 

thus,  even  in  the  lowliest  of  her  manifestations,  she 
speaks  to  both  sense  and  soul  alike.  To  the  aesthetic 
temperament  the  vague  is  always  repellent.  The 
Greeks  were  a  nation  of  artists,  because  they  were 
spared  the  sense  of  the  infinite.  Like  Aristotle, 
like  Goethe  after  he  had  read  Kant,  we  desire  the 
concrete,  and  nothing  but  the  concrete  can  satisfy 
us. 

Ernest.  What  then  do  you  propose? 

Gilbert.  It  seems  to  me  that  with  the  develop- 
ment of  the  critical  spirit  we  shall  be  able  to  realize, 
not  merely  our  own  lives,  but  the  collective  life  of 
the  race,  and  so  to  make  ourselves  absolutely 
modern,  in  the  true  meaning  of  the  word  modernity. 
For  he  to  whom  the  present  is  the  only  thing  that 
is  present,  knows  nothing  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lives.  To  realize  the  nineteenth  century,  one  must 
realize  every  century  that  has  preceded  it  and  that 
has  contributed  to  its  making.  To  know  anything 
about  oneself,  one  must  know  all  about  others. 
There  must  be  no  mood  with  which  one  cannot 
sympathize,  no  dead  mode  of  life  that  one  cannot 
make  alive.  Is  this  impossible  ?  I  think  not.  By 
revealing  to  us  the  absolute  mechanism  of  all  ac- 
tion, and  so  freeing  us  from  the  self-imposed  and 
trammelling  burden  of  moral  responsibility,  the 
scientific  principle  of  Heredity  has  become,   as  it 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  73 

were,  the  warrant  for  the  contemplative  life.  It  has 
shown  us  that  we  are  never  less  free  than  when  we 
try  to  act.  It  has  hemmed  us  round  with  the  nets 
of  the  hunter,  and  written  upon  the  wall  the  pro- 
phecy of  our  doom.  We  may  not  watch  it,  for  it  is 
within  us.  We  may  not  see  it,  save  in  a  mirror 
that  mirrors  the  soul.  It  is  Nemesis  without  her 
mask.  It  is  the  last  of  the  Fates,  and  the  most  ter- 
rible. It  is  the  only  one  of  the  Gods  whose  real 
name  we  know. 

And  yet,  while  in  the  sphere  of  practical  and  ex- 
ternal life  it  has  robbed  energy  of  its  freedom  and 
activity  of  its  choice,  in  the  subjective  sphere, 
where  the  soul  is  at  work,  it  comes  to  us,  this  ter- 
rible shadow,  with  many  gifts  in  its  hands,  gifts  of 
strange  temperaments  and  subtle  susceptibilities, 
gifts  of  wild  ardours  and  chill  moods  of  indifference, 
complex  multiform  gifts  of  thoughts  that  are  at 
variance  with  each  other,  and  passions  that  war 
against  themselves.  And  so,  it  is  not  our  own  life 
that  we  live,  but  the  lives  of  the  dead,  and  the  soul 
that  dwells  within  us  is  no  single  spiritual  entity, 
making  us  personal  and  individual,  created  for  our 
service,  and  entering  into  us  for  our  joy.  It  is 
something  that  has  dwelt  in  fearful  places,  and  in 
ancient  sepulchres  has  made  its  abode.  It  is  sick 
with  many  maladies,  and  has  memories  of  curious 


1 74  INTENTIONS 

sins.  It  is  wiser  than  we  are,  and  its  wisdom  is 
bitter.  It  fills  us  with  impossible  desires,  and 
makes  us  follow  what  we  know  we  cannot  gain. 
One  thing,  however,  Ernest,  it  can  do  for  us. 
It  can  lead  us  away  from  surroundings  whose 
beauty  is  dimmed  to  us  by  the  mist  of  familiar- 
ity, or  whose  ignoble  ugliness  and  sordid  claims 
are  marring  the  perfection  of  our  development.  It 
can  help  us  to  leave  the  age  in  which  we  were  born, 
and  to  pass  into  other  ages,  and  find  ourselves  not 
exiled  from  their  air.  It  can  teach  us  how  to  escape 
from  our  experience,  and  to  realize  the  experiences 
of  those  who  are  greater  than  we  are.  The  pain  of 
Leopardi  crying  out  against  life  becomes  our  pain. 
Theocritus  blows  on  his  pipe,  and  we  laugh  with 
the  lips  of  nymph  and  shepherd.  In  the  wolfskin 
of  Pierre  Vidal  we  flee  before  the  hounds,  and  in 
the  armour  of  Lancelot  we  ride  from  the  bower  of 
the  Queen.  We  have  whispered  the  secret  of  our 
love  beneath  the  cowl  of  Abelard,  and  in  the  stained 
raiment  of  Villon  have  put  our  shame  into  song. 
We  can  see  the  dawn  through  Shelley's  eyes,  and 
when  we  wander  with  Endymion  the  Moon  grows 
amorous  of  our  youth.  Ours  is  the  anguish  of 
Atys,  and  ours  the  weak  rage  and  noble  sorrows  of 
the  Dane.  Do  you  think  that  it  is  the  imagination 
that  enables  us  to  live  these  countless  lives?     Yes: 


THE   CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  75 

it  is  the  imagination;  and  the  imagination  is  the 
result  of  heredity.  It  is  simply  concentrated  race- 
experience. 

Ernest.  But  where  in  this  is  the  function  of  the 
critical  spirit? 

Gilbert.  The  culture  that  this  transmission  of 
racial  experiences  makes  possible  can  be  made  per- 
fect by  the  critical  spirit  alone,  and  indeed  may  be 
said  to  be  one  with  it.  For  who  is  the  true  critic 
but  he  who  bears  within  himself  the  dreams,  and 
ideas,  and  feelings  of  myriad  generations,  and  to 
whom  no  form  of  thought  is  alien,  no  emotional  im- 
pulse obscure?  And  who  the  true  man  of  culture, 
if  not  he  who  by  fine  scholarship  and  fastidious  re- 
jection has  made  instinct  self-conscious  and  intelli- 
gent, and  can  separate  the  work  that  has  distinction 
from  the  work  that  has  it  not,  and  so  by  contact 
and  comparison  makes  himself  master  of  the  secrets 
of  style  and  school,  and  understands  their  meanings, 
and  listens  to  their  voices,  and  develops  that  spirit  of 
disinterested  curiosity  which  is  the  real  root,  as  it  is 
the  real  flower,  of  the  intellectual  life,  and  thus  at- 
tains to  intellectual  clarity,  and,  having  learned 
"  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world," 
lives — it  is  not  fanciful  to  say  so — with  those  who 
are  the  Immortals. 

Yes,  Ernest:   the  contemplative  life,  the  life  that 


176  INTENTIONS 

has  for  its  aim  not  doing  but  being,  and  not  being 
merely,  but  becoming — that  is  what  the  critical 
spirit  can  give  us.  The  gods  live  thus :  either 
brooding  over  their  own  perfection,  as  Aristotle 
tells  us,  or,  as  Epicurus  fancied,  watching  with 
the  calm  eyes  of  the  spectator  the  tragi-comedy  of 
the  world  that  they  have  made.  We,  too,  might 
live  like  them,  and  set  ourselves  to  witness  with 
appropriate  emotions  the  varied  scenes  that  man 
and  nature  afford.  We  might  make  ourselves 
spiritual  by  detaching  ourselves  from  action,  and 
become  perfect  by  the  rejection  of  energy.  It  has 
often  seemed  to  me  that  Browning  felt  something 
of  this.  Shakespeare  hurls  Hamlet  into  active 
life,  and  makes  him  realize  his  mission  by  effort. 
Browning  might  have  given  us  a  Hamlet  who 
would  have  realized  his  mission  by  thought.  Inci- 
dent and  event  were  to  him  unreal  or  unmeaning. 
He  made  the  soul  the  protagonist  of  life's  tragedy, 
and  looked  on  action  as  the  one  undramatic  ele- 
ment of  a  play.  To  us,  at  any  rate,  the  BIOS 
©EGPHTIKOS  is  the  true  ideal.  From  the  high 
tower  of  Thought  we  can  look  out  at  the  world. 
Calm,  and  self-centred,  and  complete,  the  aesthetic 
critic  contemplates  life,  and  no  arrow  drawn  at  a 
venture  can  pierce  between  the  joints  of  his  harness. 
He  at  least  is  safe.  He  has  discovered  how  to 
live. 


THE   CRITIC    AS    ARTIST  I  77 

Is  such  a  mode  of  life  immoral  ?  Yes :  all  the 
arts  are  immoral,  except  those  baser  forms  of  sen- 
sual or  didactic  art  that  seek  to  excite  to  action  of 
evil  or  of  good.  For  action  of  every  kind  belongs 
to  the  sphere  of  ethics.  The  aim  of  art  is  simply  to 
create  a  mood.  Is  such  a  mode  of  life  unpractical? 
Ah!  it  is  not  so  easy  to  be  unpractical  as  the 
ignorant  Philistine  imagines.  It  were  well  for  Eng- 
land if  it  were  so.  There  is  no  country  in  the 
world  so  much  in  need  of  unpractical  people  as 
this  country  of  ours.  With  us,  Thought  is  de- 
graded by  its  constant  association  with  practice. 
Who  that  moves  in  the  stress  and  turmoil  of  actual 
existence,  noisy  politician,  or  brawling  social  re- 
former, or  poor  narrow-minded  priest  blinded  by 
the  sufferings  of  that  unimportant  section  of  the 
community  among  whom  he  has  cast  his  lot,  can 
seriously  claim  to  be  able  to  form  a  disinterested 
intellectual  judgment  about  any  one  thing?  Each 
of  the  professions  means  a  prejudice.  The  neces- 
sity for  a  career  forces  every  one  to  take  sides. 
We  live  in  the  age  of  the  overworked,  and  the 
under-educated ;  the  age  in  which  people  are  so 
industrious  that  they  become  absolutely  stupid. 
And,  harsh  though  it  may  sound,  I  cannot  help  say- 
ing that  such  people  deserve  their  doom.  The 
sure  way  of  knowing  nothing  about  life  is  to  try  to 
make  oneself  useful. 


178  INTENTIONS 

Ernest.  A  charming  doctrine,  Gilbert. 

Gilbert.  I  am  not  sure  about  that,  but  it  has  at 
least  the  minor  merit  of  being  true.  That  the  de- 
sire to  do  good  to  others  produces  a  plentiful  crop 
of  prigs  is  the  least  of  the  evils  of  which  it  is  the 
cause.  The  prig  is  a  very  interesting  psychological 
study,  and  though  of  all  poses  a  moral  pose  is  the  most 
offensive,  still  to  have  a  pose  at  all  is  something. 
It  is  a  formal  recognition  of  the  importance  of 
treating  life  from  a  definite  and  reasoned  stand- 
point. That  Humanitarian  Sympathy  wars  against 
Nature,  by  securing  the  survival  of  the  failure,  may 
make  the  man  of  science  loathe  its  facile  virtues. 
The  political  economist  may  cry  out  against  it  for 
putting  the  improvident  on  the  same  level  as  the 
provident,  and  so  robbing  life  of  the  strongest, 
because  most  sordid,  incentive  to  industry.  But, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  thinker,  the  real  harm  that  emo- 
tional sympathy  does  is  that  it  limits  knowledge, 
and  so  prevents  us  from  solving  any  single  social 
problem.  We  are  trying  at  present  to  stave  off  the 
coming  crisis,  the  coming  revolution,  as  my  friends, 
the  Fabianists,  call  it,  by  means  of  doles  and  alms. 
Well,  when  the  revolution  or  crisis  arrives  we  shall 
be  powerless  because  we  shall  know  nothing.  And 
so,  Ernest,  let  us  not  be  deceived.  England  will 
never  be  civilized  till  she  has  added  Utopia  to  her 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  I  79 

dominions.  There  is  more  than  one  of  her  colonies 
that  she  might  with  advantage  surrender  for  so  fair 
a  land.  What  we  want  are  unpractical  people  who 
see  beyond  the  moment,  and  think  beyond  the  day. 
Those  who  try  to  lead  the  people  can  only  do  so 
by  following  the  mob.  It  is  through  the  voice  of 
one  crying  in  the  wilderness  that  the  ways  of  the 
gods  must  be  prepared. 

But  perhaps  you  think  that  in  beholding  for  the 
mere  joy  of  beholding,  and  contemplating  for  the 
sake  of  contemplation,  there  is  something  that  is 
egotistic.  If  you  think  so,  do  not  say  so.  It  takes 
a  thoroughly  selfish  age,  like  our  own,  to  deify  self- 
sacrifice.  It  takes  a  thoroughly  grasping  age,  such 
as  that  in  which  we  live,  to  set  above  the  fine  intel- 
lectual virtues,  those  shallow  and  emotional  virtues 
that  are  an  immediate  practical  benefit  to  itself.  They 
miss  their  aim,  too,  these  philanthropists  and  senti- 
mentalists of  our  day,  who  are  always  chattering  to 
one  about  one's  duty  to  one's  neighbour.  For  the 
development  of  the  race  depends  on  the  develop- 
ment of  the  individual,  and  where  self-culture  has 
ceased  to  be  the  ideal,  the  intellectual  standard  is 
instantly  lowered,  and,  often,  ultimately  lost.  If 
you  meet  at  dinner  a  man  who  has  spent  his  life  in 
educating  himself — a  rare  type  in  our  time,  I 
admit,  but  still  one  occasionally  to  be  met  with — 


i8o 


INTENTIONS 


you  rise  from  table  richer,  and  conscious  that  a 
high  ideal  has  for  a  moment  touched  and  sanctified 
your  days.  But,  oh!  my  dear  Ernest,  to  sit  next 
a  man  who  has  spent  his  life  in  trying  to  educate 
others!  What  a  dreadful  experience  that  is! 
How  appalling  is  that  ignorance  which  is  the  in- 
evitable result  of  the  fatal  habit  of  imparting  opin- 
ions !  How  limited  in  range  the  creature's  mind 
proves  to  be!  How  it  wearies  us,  and  must  weary 
himself,  with  its  endless  repetitions  and  sickly  re- 
iteration !  How  lacking  it  is  in  any  element  of 
intellectual  growth!  In  what  a  vicious  circle  it 
always  moves ! 

Ernest.  You  speak  with  strange  feeling,  Gilbert. 
Have  you  had  this  dreadful  experience,  as  you  call 
it,  lately? 

Gilbert.  Few  of  us  escape  it.  People  say  that 
the  schoolmaster  is  abroad.  I  wish  to  goodness 
he  were.  But  the  type  of  which,  after  all,  he  is 
only  one,  and  certainly  the  least  important,  of  the 
representatives,  seems  to  me  to  be  really  domi- 
nating our  lives;  and  just  as  the  philanthropist  is 
the  nuisance  of  the  ethical  sphere,  so  the  nuisance 
of  the  intellectual  sphere  is  the  man  who  is  so  occu- 
pied in  trying  to  educate  others,  that  he  has  never 
had  any  time  to  educate  himself.  No,  Ernest, 
self-culture  is  the  true  ideal  of  man.     Goethe  saw 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  l8l 

it,  and  the  immediate  debt  that  we  owe  to  Goethe 
is  greater  than  the  debt  we  owe  to  any  man  since 
Greek  days.  The  Greeks  saw  it,  and  have  left  us, 
as  their  legacy  to  modern  thought,  the  conception 
of  the  contemplative  life  as  well  as  the  critical 
method  by  which  alone  can  that  life  be  truly  real- 
ized. It  was  the  one  thing  that  made  the  Renais- 
sance great,  and  gave  us  Humanism.  It  is  the  one 
thing  that  could  make  our  own  age  great  also ;  for 
the  real  weakness  of  England  lies,  not  in  incomplete 
armaments  or  unfortified  coasts,  not  in  the  poverty 
that  creeps  through  sunless  lanes,  or  the  drunken- 
ness that  brawls  in  loathsome  courts,  but  simply  in 
the  fact  that  her  ideals  are  emotional  and  not  intel- 
lectual. 

I  do  not  deny  that  the  intellectual  ideal  is  diffi- 
cult of  attainment,  still  less  that  it  is,  and  perhaps 
will  be  for  years  to  come,  unpopular  with  the  crowd. 
It  is  so  easy  for  people  to  have  sympathy  with  suf- 
fering. It  is  so  difficult  for  them  to  have  sympathy 
with  thought.  Indeed,  so  little  do  ordinary  people 
understand  what  thought  really  is,  that  they  seem 
to  imagine  that,  when  they  have  said  that  a  theory 
is  dangerous,  they  have  pronounced  its  condemna- 
tion, whereas  it  is  only  such  theories  that  have  any 
true  intellectual  value.  An  idea  that  is  not  dan- 
gerous is  unworthy  of  being  called  an  idea  at  all. 


1 82  INTENTIONS 

Ernest.  Gilbert,  you  bewilder  me.  You  have  told 
me  that  all  art  is,  in  its  essence,  immoral.  Are  you 
going  to  tell  me  now  that  all  thought  is,  in  its  essence, 
dangerous  ? 

Gilbert.  Yes,  in  the  practical  sphere  it  is  so.  The 
security  of  society  lies  in  custom  and  unconscious  in- 
stinct, and  the  basis  of  the  stability  of  society,  as  a 
healthy  organism,  is  the  complete  absence  of  any  in- 
telligence amongst  its  members.  The  great  majority 
of  people,  being  fully  aware  of  this,  rank  themselves 
naturally  on  the  side  of  that  splendid  system  that 
elevates  them  to  the  dignity  of  machines,  and  rage 
so  wildly  against  the  intrusion  of  the  intellectual 
faculty  into  any  question  that  concerns  life,  that  one 
is  tempted  to  define  man  as  a  rational  animal  who 
always  loses  his  temper  when  he  is  called  upon  to  act 
in  accordance  with  the  dictates  of  reason.  But  let 
us  turn  from  the  practical  sphere,  and  say  no  more 
about  the  wicked  philanthropists,  who,  indeed,  may 
well  be  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  almond-eyed  sage  of 
the  Yellow  River,  Chuang  Tsu  the  wise,  who  has 
proved  that  such  well-meaning  and  offensive  busy- 
bodies  have  destroyed  the  simple  and  spontaneous 
virtue  that  there  is  in  man.  They  are  a  wearisome 
topic,  and  I  am  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  sphere  in 
which  criticism  is  iree. 

Ernest.  The  sphere  of  the  intellect? 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 83 

Gilbert.  Yes.  You  remember  that  I  spoke  of  the 
critic  as  being  in  his  own  way  as  creative  as  the 
artist,  whose  work,  indeed,  may  be  merely  of  value  in 
so  far  as  it  gives  to  the  critic  a  suggestion  for  some 
new  mood  of  thought  and  feeling  which  he  can  real- 
ize with  equal,  or  perhaps  greater,  distinction  of 
form,  and,  through  the  use  of  a  fresh  medium  of  ex- 
pression, make  differently  beautiful  and  more  per- 
fect. Well,  you  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  little  scepti- 
cal about  the  theory.     But  perhaps  I  wronged  you  ? 

Ernest.  I  am  not  really  sceptical  about  it,  but  I 
must  admit  that  I  feel  very  strongly  that  such  work 
as  you  describe  the  critic  producing — and  creative 
such  work  must  undoubtedly  be  admitted  to  be — is, 
of  necessity,  purely  subjective,  whereas  the  greatest 
work  is  objective  always,  objective  and  impersonal. 

Gilbert.  The  difference  between  objective  and  sub- 
jective work  is  one  of  external  form  merely.  It  is 
accidental,  not  essential.  All  artistic  creation  is  ab- 
solutely subjective.  The  very  landscape  that  Corot 
looked  at  was,  as  he  said  himself,  but  a  mood  of  his 
own  mind ;  and  those  great  figures  of  Greek  or  Eng- 
lish drama  that  seem  to  us  to  possess  an  actual  ex- 
istence of  their  own,  apart  from  the  poets  who  shaped 
and  fashioned  them,  are,  in  their  ultimate  analysis, 
simply  the  poets  themselves,  not  as  they  thought 
they  were,  but  as  they  thought  they  were  not ;  and 


1 84  INTENTIONS 

by  such  thinking  came  in  strange  manner,  though 
but  for  a  moment,  really  so  to  be.  For  out  of  our- 
selves we  can  never  pass,  nor  can  there  be  in  creation 
what  in  the  creator  was  not.  Nay,  I  would  say  that 
the  more  objective  a  creation  appears  to  be,  the  more 
subjective  it  really  is.  Shakespeare  might  have  met 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  in  the  white  streets  of 
London,  or  seen  the  serving-men  of  rival  houses  bite 
their  thumbs  at  each  other  in  the  open  square ;  but 
Hamlet  came  out  of  his  soul,  and  Romeo  out  of  his 
passion.  They  were  elements  of  his  nature  to  which 
he  gave  visible  form,  impulses  that  stirred  so  strongly 
within  him  that  he  had,  as  it  were  perforce,  to  suffer 
them  to  realize  their  energy,  not  on  the  lower  plane 
of  actual  life,  where  they  would  have  been  tram- 
melled and  constrained  and  so  made  imperfect,  but  on 
that  imaginative  plane  of  art  where  Love  can  indeed 
find  in  Death  its  rich  fulfilment,  where  one  can  stab 
the  eavesdropper  behind  the  arras,  and  wrestle  in  a 
new-made  grave,  and  make  a  guilty  king  drink  his 
own  hurt,  and  see  one's  father's  spirit,  beneath  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon,  stalking  in  complete  steel 
from  misty  wall  to  wall.  Action  being  limited  would 
have  left  Shakespeare  unsatisfied  and  unexpressed; 
and,  just  as  it  is  because  he  did  nothing  that  he  has 
been  able  to  achieve  everything,  so  it  is  because  he 
never  speaks  to  us  of  himself  in  his  plays  that  his 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 85 

plays  reveal  him  to  us  absolutely,  and  show  us  his 
true  nature  and  temperament  far  more  completely 
than  do  those  strange  and  exquisite  sonnets,  even, 
in  which  he  bares  to  crystal  eyes  the  secret  closet  of 
his  heart.  Yes,  the  objective  form  is  the  most  sub- 
jective in  matter.  Man  is  least  himself  when  he 
talks  in  his  own  person.  Give  him  a  mask,  and  he 
will  tell  you  the  truth. 

Ernest.  The  critic,  then,  being  limited  to  the  sub- 
jective form,  will  necessarily  be  less  able  to  fully  ex- 
press himself  than  the  artist,  who  has  always  at  his 
disposal  the  forms  that  are  impersonal  and  objective. 

Gilbert.  Not  necessarily,  and  certainly  not  at  all  if 
he  recognizes  that  each  mode  of  criticism  is,  in  its 
highest  development,  simply  a  mood,  and  that  we 
are  never  more  true  to  ourselves  than  when  we  are 
inconsistent.  The  aesthetic  critic,  constant  only  to 
the  principle  of  beauty  in  all  things,  will  ever  be  look- 
ing for  fresh  impressions,  winning  from  the  various 
schools  the  secret  of  their  charm,  bowing,  it  may  be, 
before  foreign  altars,  or  smiling,  if  it  be  his  fancy,  at 
strange  new  gods.  What  other  people  call  one's  past 
has,  no  doubt,  everything  to  do  with  them,  but  has 
absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  oneself.  The  man 
who  regards  his  past  is  a  man  who  deserves  to  have 
no  future  to  look  forward  to.  When  one  has  found 
expression  for  a  mood,  one  has  done  with  it.     You 


1 86  INTENTIONS 

laugh ;  but  believe  me  it  is  so.  Yesterday  it  was 
Realism  that  charmed  one.  One  gained  from  it  that 
'  nouveau  frisson '  which  it  was  its  aim  to  produce. 
One  analysed  it,  explained  it,  and  wearied  of  it.  At 
sunset  came  the  '  Luministe '  in  painting,  and  the 
1  Symboliste '  in  poetry,  and  the  spirit  of  mediae- 
valism,  that  spirit  which  belongs  not  to  time  but  to 
temperament,  woke  suddenly  in  wounded  Russia, 
and  stirred  us  for  a  moment  by  the  terrible  fascina- 
tion of  pain.  To-day  the  cry  is  for  Romance,  and 
already  the  leaves  are  tremulous  in  the  valley,  and  on 
the  purple  hill-tops  walks  Beauty  with  slim  gilded 
feet.  The  old  modes  of  creation  linger,  of  course. 
The  artists  reproduce  either  themselves  or  each 
other,  with  wearisome  iteration.  But  Criticism  is 
always  moving  on,  and  the  critic  is  always  develop- 
ing. 

Nor,  again,  is  the  critic  really  limited  to  the  sub- 
jective form  of  expression.  The  method  of  the  drama 
is  his,  as  well  as  the  method  of  the  epos.  He  may 
use  dialogue,  as  he  did  who  set  Milton  talking  to 
Marvel  on  the  nature  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  and 
made  Sidney  and  Lord  Brooke  discourse  on  letters 
beneath  the  Penshurst  oaks ;  or  adopt  narration,  as 
Mr.  Pater  is  fond  of  doing,  each  of  whose  Imaginary 
Portraits — is  not  that  the  title  of  the  book? — pre- 
sents to  us,  under  the  fanciful  guise  of  fiction,  some 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 87 

fine  and  exquisite  piece  of  criticism,  one  on  the 
painter  Watteau,  another  on  the  philosophy  of 
Spinoza,  a  third  on  the  Pagan  elements  of  the  early 
Renaissance,  and  the  last,  and  in  some  respects  the 
most  suggestive,  on  the  source  of  that  Aufklarung, 
that  enlightening  which  dawned  on  Germany  in  the 
last  century,  and  to  which  our  own  culture  owes  so 
great  a  debt.  Dialogue,  certainly,  that  wonderful 
literary  form  which,  from  Plato  to  Lucian,  and  from 
Lucian  to  Giordano  Bruno,  and  from  Bruno  to  that 
grand  old  Pagan  in  whom  Carlyle  took  such  delight, 
the  creative  critics  of  the  world  have  always  em- 
ployed, can  never  lose  for  the  thinker  its  attraction 
as  a  mode  of  expression.  By  its  means  he  can  both 
reveal  and  conceal  himself,  and  give  form  to  every 
fancy,  and  reality  to  every  mood.  By  its  means  he 
can  exhibit  the  object  from  each  point  of  view,  and 
show  it  to  us  in  the  round,  as  a  sculptor  shows  us 
things,  gaining  in  this  manner  all  the  richness  and 
reality  of  effect  that  comes  from  those  side  issues 
that  are  suddenly  suggested  by  the  central  idea  in 
its  progress,  and  really  illumine  the  idea  more  com- 
pletely, or  from  those  felicitous  after-thoughts  that 
give  a  fuller  completeness  to  the  central  scheme, 
and  yet  convey  something  of  the  delicate  charm  of 
chance. 

Ernest.  By    its    means,    too,    he    can    invent    an 


1 88  INTENTIONS 

imaginary  antagonist,  and  convert  him  when  he 
chooses  by  some  absurdly  sophistical  argument. 

Gilbert.  Ah !  it  is  so  easy  to  convert  others.  It  is 
so  difficult  to  convert  oneself.  To  arrive  at  what 
one  really  believes,  one  must  speak  through  lips 
different  from  one's  own.  To  know  the  truth  one 
must  imagine  myriads  of  falsehoods.  For  what  is 
Truth  ?  In  matters  of  religion,  it  is  simply  the 
opinion  that  has  survived.  In  matters  of  science, 
it  is  the  ultimate  sensation.  In  matters  of  art,  it  is 
one's  last  mood.  And  you  see  now,  Ernest,  that 
the  critic  has  at  his  disposal  as  many  objective 
forms  of  expression  as  the  artist  has.  Ruskin  put 
his  criticism  into  imaginative  prose,  and  is  superb 
in  his  changes  and  contradictions ;  and  Browning 
put  his  into  blank  verse,  and  made  painter  and 
poet  yield  us  their  secret ;  and  M.  Renan  uses  dia- 
logue, and  Mr.  Pater  fiction,  and  Rossetti  translated 
into  sonnet-music  the  colour  of  Giorgione  and  the 
design  of  Ingres,  and  his  own  design  and  colour 
also,  feeling,  with  the  instinct  of  one  who  had  many 
modes  of  utterance,  that  the  ultimate  art  is  litera- 
ture, and  the  finest  and  fullest  medium  that  of  words. 

Ernest.  Well,  now  that  you  have  settled  that  the 
critic  has  at  his  disposal  all  objective  forms,  I  wish 
you  would  tell  me  what  are  the  qualities  that  should 
characterize  the  true  critic. 


THE    CRITIC   AS    ARTIST  1 89 

Gilbert.  What  would  you  say  they  were? 

Ernest.  Well,  I  should  say  that  a  critic  should 
above  all  things  be  fair. 

Gilbert.  Ah !  not  fair.  A  critic  cannot  be  fair  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  It  is  only  about 
things  that  do  not  interest  one  that  one  can  give  a 
really  unbiassed  opinion,  which  is  no  doubt  the 
reason  why  an  unbiassed  opinion  is  always  abso- 
lutely valueless.  The  man  who  sees  both  sides  of 
a  question,  is  a  man  who  sees  absolutely  nothing  at 
all.  Art  is  a  passion,  and,  in  matters  of  art, 
Thought  is  inevitably  coloured  by  emotion,  and  so 
is  fluid  rather  than  fixed,  and,  depending  upon  fine 
moods  and  exquisite  moments,  cannot  be  narrowed 
into  the  rigidity  of  a  scientific  formula  or  a  theo- 
logical dogma.  It  is  to  the  soul  that  Art  speaks, 
and  the  soul  may  be  made  the  prisoner  of  the  mind 
as  well  as  of  the  body.  One  should,  of  course, 
have  no  prejudices ;  but,  as  a  great  Frenchman  re- 
marked a  hundred  years  ago,  it  is  one's  business  in 
such  matters  to  have  preferences,  and  when  one 
has  preferences  one  ceases  to  be  fair.  It  is  only  an 
auctioneer  who  can  equally  and  impartially  admire 
all  schools  of  Art.  No :  fairness  is  not  one  of  the 
qualities  of  the  true  critic.  It  is  not  even  a  condi- 
tion of  criticism.  Each  form  of  Art  with  which  we 
come  in  contact  dominates  us  for  the  moment  to  the 


19O  INTENTIONS 

exclusion  of  every  other  form.  We  must  surrender 
ourselves  absolutely  to  the  work  in  question,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  if  we  wish  to  gain  its  secret.  For 
the  time,  we  must  think  of  nothing  else,  can  think 
of  nothing  else,  indeed. 

Ernest.  The  true  critic  will  be  rational,  at  any 
rate,  will  he  not? 

Gilbert.  Rational  ?  There  are  two  ways  of  dis- 
liking art,  Ernest.  One  is  to  dislike  it.  The  other, 
to  like  it  rationally.  For  Art,  as  Plato  saw,  and 
not  without  regret,  creates  in  listener  and  spectator 
a  form  of  divine  madness.  It  does  not  spring  from 
inspiration,  but  it  makes  others  inspired.  Reason 
is  not  the  faculty  to  which  it  appeals.  If  one  loves 
Art  at  all,  one  must  love  it  beyond  all  other  things 
in  the  world,  and  against  such  love,  the  reason,  if 
one  listened  to  it,  would  cry  out.  There  is  nothing 
sane  about  the  worship  of  beauty.  It  is  too  splen- 
did to  be  sane.  Those  of  whose  lives  it  forms  the 
dominant  note  will  always  seem  to  the  world  to  be 
pure  visionaries. 

Ernest.  Well,  at  least,  the  critic  will  be  sincere. 

Gilbert.  A  little  sincerity  is  a  dangerous  thing, 
and  a  great  deal  of  it  is  absolutely  fatal.  The  true 
critic  will,  indeed,  always  be  sincere  in  his  devotion 
to  the  principle  of  beauty,  but  he  will  seek  for 
beauty  in  every  age  and  in  each  school,  and  will 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  191 

never  suffer  himself  to  be  limited  to  any  settled 
custom  of  thought,  or  stereotyped  mode  of  looking 
at  things.  He  will  realize  himself  in  many  forms, 
and  by  a  thousand  different  ways,  and  will  ever  be 
curious  of  new  sensations  and  fresh  points  of  view. 
Through  constant  change,  and  through  constant 
change  alone,  he  will  find  his  true  unity.  He  will 
not  consent  to  be  the  slave  of  his  own  opinions. 
For  what  is  mind  but  motion  in  the  intellectual 
sphere  ?  The  essence  of  thought,  as  the  essence  of 
life,  is  growth.  You  must  not  be  frightened  by 
words,  Ernest.  What  people  call  insincerity  is 
simply  a  method  by  which  we  can  multiply  our 
personalities. 

Ernest.  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  been  fortunate  in 
my  suggestions. 

Gilbert.  Of  the  three  qualifications  you  men- 
tioned, two,  sincerity  and  fairness,  were,  if  not 
actually  moral,  at  least  on  the  border-land  of  morals, 
and  the  first  condition  of  criticism  is  that  the  critic 
should  be  able  to  recognize  that  the  sphere  of  Art 
and  the  sphere  of  Ethics  are  absolutely  distinct  and 
separate.  When  they  are  confused,  Chaos  has 
come  again.  They  are  too  often  confused  in  Eng- 
land now,  and  though  our  modern  Puritans  cannot 
destroy  a  beautiful  thing,  yet,  by  means  of  their 
extraordinary    prurience,    they    can    almost    taint 


192  INTENTIONS 

beauty  for  a  moment.  It  is  chiefly,  I  regret  to 
say,  through  journalism  that  such  people  find  ex- 
pression. I  regret  it  because  there  is  much  to  be 
said  in  favor  of  modern  journalism.  By  giving  us 
the  opinions  of  the  uneducated,  it  keeps  us  in  touch 
with  the  ignorance  of  the  community.  By  carefully 
chronicling  the  current  events  of  contemporary 
life,  it  shows  us  of  what  very  little  importance  such 
events  really  are.  By  invariably  discussing  the  un- 
necessary, it  makes  us  understand  what  things  are 
requisite  for  culture,  and  what  are  not.  But  it 
should  not  allow  poor  Tartuffe  to  write  articles 
upon  modern  art.  When  it  does  this  it  stultifies 
itself.  And  yet  Tartuffe's  articles,  and  Chadband's 
notes,  do  this  good,  at  least.  They  serve  to  show 
how  extremely  limited  is  the  area  over  which 
ethics,  and  ethical  considerations,  can  claim  to 
exercise  influence.  Science  is  out  of  the  reach  of 
morals,  for  her  eyes  are  fixed  upon  eternal  truths. 
Art  is  out  of  the  reach  of  morals,  for  her  eyes  are 
fixed  upon  things  beautiful  and  immortal  and  ever- 
changing.  To  morals  belong  the  lower  and  less 
intellectual  spheres.  However,  let  these  mouthing 
Puritans  pass ;  they  have  their  comic  side.  Who 
can  help  laughing  when  an  ordinary  journalist 
seriously  proposes  to  limit  the  subject-matter  at  the 
disposal    of   the    artist?     Some     limitation    might 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  193 

well,  and  will  soon,  I  hope,  be  placed  upon  some 
of  our  newspapers  and  newspaper  writers.  For  they 
give  us  the  bald,  sordid,  disgusting  facts  of  life. 
They  chronicle,  with  degrading  avidity,  the  sins  of 
the  second-rate,  and  with  the  conscientiousness  of 
the  illiterate  give  us  accurate  and  prosaic  details  of 
the  doings  of  people  of  absolutely  no  interest  what- 
soever. But  the  artist,  who  accepts  the  facts  of 
life,  and  yet  transforms  them  into  shapes  of  beauty, 
and  makes  them  vehicles  of  pity  or  of  awe,  and 
shows  their  colour-element,  and  their  wonder,  and 
their  true  ethical  import  also,  and  builds  out  of 
them  a  world  more  real  than  reality  itself,  and  of 
loftier  and  more  noble  import — who  shall  set  limits 
to  him  ?  Not  the  apostles  of  that  new  Journalism 
which  is  but  the  old  vulgarity  "writ  large."  Not 
the  apostles  of  that  new  Puritanism,  which  is  but 
the  whine  of  the  hypocrite,  and  is  both  writ  and 
spoken  badly.  The  mere  suggestion  is  ridiculous. 
Let  us  leave  these  wicked  people,  and  proceed  to 
the  discussion  of  the  artistic  qualifications  necessary 
for  the  true  critic. 

Ernest.    And  what  are  they?     Tell  me  yourself. 

Gilbert.  Temperament  is  the  primary  requisite  for 
the  critic — a  temperament  exquisitely  susceptible  to 
beauty,  and  to  the  various  impressions  that  beauty 
gives   us.      Under    what    conditions,  and    by   what 


194  INTENTIONS 

means,  this  temperament  is  engendered  in  race  or 
individual,  we  will  not  discuss  at  present.  It  is 
sufficient  to  note  that  it  exists,  and  that  there  is  in  us 
a  beauty-sense,  separate  from  the  other  senses  and 
above  them,  separate  from  the  reason  and  of  nobler 
import,  separate  from  the  soul  and  of  equal  value — 
a  sense  that  leads  some  to  create,  and  others,  the 
finer  spirits  as  I  think,  to  contemplate  merely. 
But  to  be  purified  and  made  perfect,  this  sense 
requires  some  form  of  exquisite  environment.  With- 
out this  it  starves,  or  is  dulled.  You  remember 
that  lovely  passage  in  which  Plato  describes  how  a 
young  Greek  should  be  educated,  and  with  what 
insistence  he  dwells  upon  the  importance  of  sur- 
roundings, telling  us  how  the  lad  is  to  be  brought 
up  in  the  midst  of  fair  sights  and  sounds,  so  that 
the  beauty  of  material  things  may  prepare  his  soul 
for  the  reception  of  the  beauty  that  is  spiritual. 
Insensibly,  and  without  knowing  the  reason  why,  he 
is  to  develop  that  real  love  of  beauty  which,  as  Plato 
is  never  weary  of  reminding  us,  is  the  true  aim  of 
education.  By  slow  degrees  there  is  to  be  en- 
gendered in  him  such  a  temperament  as  will  lead 
him  naturally  and  simply  to  choose  the  good  in 
preference  to  the  bad,  and,  rejecting  what  is 
vulgar  and  discordant,  to  follow  by  fine  instinctive 
taste  all  that  possesses  grace  and  charm  and  loveli- 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  195 

ness.  Ultimately,  in  its  due  course,  this  taste  is  to 
become  critical  and  self-conscious,  but  at  first  it 
is  to  exist  purely  as  a  cultivated  instinct,  and  "  he 
who  has  received  this  true  culture  of  the  inner  man 
will  with  clear  and  certain  vision  perceive  the  omis- 
sions and  faults  in  art  or  nature,  and  with  a  taste 
that  cannot  err,  while  he  praises,  and  finds  his  plea- 
sure in  what  is  good,  and  receives  it  into  his  soul,  and 
so  becomes  good  and  noble,  he  will  rightly  blame 
and  hate  the  bad,  now  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  even 
before  he  is  able  to  know  the  reason  why :  "  and  so, 
when,  later  on,  the  critical  and  self-conscious  spirit 
develops  in  him,  he  "  will  recognize  and  salute  it  as 
a  friend  with  whom  his  education  has  made  him  long 
familiar."  I  need  hardly  say,  Ernest,  how  far  we  in 
England  have  fallen  short  of  this  ideal,  and  I  can 
imagine  the  smile  that  would  illuminate  the  glossy 
face  of  the  Philistine  if  one  ventured  to  suggest  to 
him  that  the  true  aim  of  education  was  the  love  of 
beauty,  and  that  the  methods  by  which  education 
should  work  were  the  development  of  temperament, 
the  cultivation  of  taste,  and  the  creation  of  the  crit- 
ical spirit. 

Yet,  even  for  us,  there  is  left  some  loveliness  of 
environment,  and  the  dulness  of  tutors  and  profes- 
sors matters  very  little  when  one  can  loiter  in  the 
grey  cloisters  at  Magdalen,  and  listen  to  some  flute- 


196 


INTENTIONS 


like  voice  singing  in  Waynfleete's  chapel,  or  lie  in 
the  green  meadow,  among  the  strange  snake-spotted 
fritillaries,  and  watch  the  sunburnt  noon  smite  to  a 
finer  gold  the  tower's  gilded  vanes,  or  wander  up  the 
Christ  Church  staircase  beneath  the  vaulted  ceiling's 
shadowy  fans,  or  pass  through  the  sculptured  gate- 
way of  Laud's  building  in  the  College  of  St.  John. 
Nor  is  it  merely  at  Oxford,  or  Cambridge,  that  the 
sense  of  beauty  can  be  formed  and  trained  and  per- 
fected. All  over  England  there  is  a  Renaissance  of 
the  decorative  Arts.  Ugliness  has  had  its  day. 
Even  in  the  houses  of  the  rich  there  is  taste,  and  the 
houses  of  those  who  are  not  rich  have  been  made 
gracious  and  comely  and  sweet  to  live  in.  Caliban, 
poor  noisy  Caliban,  thinks  that  when  he  has  ceased 
to  make  mows  at  a  thing,  the  thing  ceases  to  exist. 
But  if  he  mocks  no  longer,  it  is  because  he  has  been 
met  with  mockery,  swifter  and  keener  than  his  own, 
and  for  a  moment  has  been  bitterly  schooled  into 
that  silence  which  should  seal  for  ever  his  uncouth 
distorted  lips.  What  has  been  done  up  to  now,  has 
been  chiefly  in  the  clearing  of  the  way.  It  is  always 
more  difficult  to  destroy  than  it  is  to  create,  and  when 
what  one  has  to  destroy  is  vulgarity  and  stupidity, 
the  task  of  destruction  needs  not  merely  courage  but 
also  contempt.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  to  have  been,  in 
a  measure,  done.     We  have  got  rid  of  what  was  bad. 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 97 

We  have  now  to  make  what  is  beautiful.  And 
though  the  mission  of  the  aesthetic  movement  is  to 
lure  people  to  contemplate,  not  to  lead  them  to 
create,  yet,  as  the  creative  instinct  is  strong  in  the 
Celt,  and  it  is  the  Celt  who  leads  in  art,  there  is  no 
reason  why  in  future  years  this  strange  Renaissance 
should  not  become  almost  as  mighty  in  its  way  as 
was  that  new  birth  of  Art  that  woke  many  centuries 
ago  in  the  cities  of  Italy. 

Certainly,  for  the  cultivation  of  temperament,  we 
must  turn  to  the  decorative  arts :  to  the  arts  that 
touch  us,  not  to  the  arts  that  teach  us.  Modern 
pictures  are,  no  doubt,  delightful  to  look  at.  At 
least,  some  of  them  are.  But  they  are  quite  impos- 
sible to  live  with ;  they  are  too  clever,  too  assertive, 
too  intellectual.  Their  meaning  is  too  obvious,  and 
their  method  too  clearly  defined.  One  exhausts 
what  they  have  to  say  in  a  very  short  time,  and 
then  they  become  as  tedious  as  one's  relations.  I 
am  very  fond  of  the  work  of  many  of  the  Impres- 
sionist painters  of  Paris  and  London.  Subtlety  and 
distinction  have  not  yet  left  the  school.  Some  of 
their  arrangements  and  harmonies  serve  to  remind 
one  of  the  unapproachable  beauty  of  Gautier's 
immortal  Symphonie  en  Blanc  Majenr,  that  flawless 
masterpiece  of  colour  and  music  which  may  have 
suggested  the  type  as  well  as  the  titles  of  many  of 


I98  INTENTIONS 

their  best  pictures.  For  a  class  that  welcomes  the 
incompetent  with  sympathetic  eagerness,  and  that 
confuses  the  bizarre  with  the  beautiful,  and  vul- 
garity with  truth,  they  are  extremely  accomplished. 
They  can  do  etchings  that  have  the  brilliancy  of 
epigrams,  pastels  that  are  as  fascinating  as  para- 
doxes, and  as  for  their  portraits,  whatever  the 
commonplace  may  say  against  them,  no  one  can 
deny  that  they  possess  that  unique  and  wonderful 
charm  which  belongs  to  works  of  pure  fiction.  But 
even  the  Impressionists,  earnest  and  industrious  as 
they  are,  will  not  do.  I  like  them.  Their  white 
keynote,  with  its  variations  in  lilac,  was  an  era  in 
colour.  Though  the  moment  does  not  make  the 
man,  the  moment  certainly  makes  the  Impression- 
ist, and  for  the  moment  in  art,  and  the  "  moment's 
monument,"  as  Rossetti  phrased  it,  what  may  not 
be  said  ?  They  are  suggestive  also.  If  they  have 
not  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  they  have  at  least 
given  great  encouragement  to  the  short-sighted,  and 
while  their  leaders  may  have  all  the  inexperience 
of  old  age,  their  young  men  are  far  too  wise  to  be 
ever  sensible.  Yet  they  will  insist  on  treating 
painting  as  if  it  were  a  mode  of  autobiography 
invented  for  the  use  of  the  illiterate,  and  are  always 
prating  to  us  on  their  coarse  gritty  canvases  of 
their  unnecessary  selves  and  their  unnecessary  opin- 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  1 99 

ions,  and  spoiling  by  a  vulgar  over-emphasis  that 
fine  contempt  of  nature  which  is  the  best  and  only- 
modest  thing  about  them.  One  tires,  at  the  end, 
of  the  work  of  individuals  whose  individuality  is 
always  noisy,  and  generally  uninteresting.  There 
is  far  more  to  be  said  in  favour  of  that  newer  school 
at  Paris,  the  '  Archaicistes,'  as  they  call  themselves, 
who,  refusing  to  leave  the  artist  entirely  at  the 
mercy  of  the  weather,  do  not  find  the  ideal  of  art 
in  mere  atmospheric  effect,  but  seek  rather  for  the 
imaginative  beauty  of  design  and  the  loveliness  of 
fair  colour,  and  rejecting  the  tedious  realism  of 
those  who  merely  paint  what  they  see,  try  to  see 
something  worth  seeing,  and  to  see  it  not  merely 
with  actual  and  physical  vision,  but  with  that  no- 
bler vision  of  the  soul  which  is  as  far  wider  in 
spiritual  scope  as  it  is  far  more  splendid  in  artistic 
purpose.  They,  at  any  rate,  work  under  those 
decorative  conditions  that  each  art  requires  for  its 
perfection,  and  have  sufficient  aesthetic  instinct  to 
regret  those  sordid  and  stupid  limitations  of  abso- 
lute modernity  of  form  which  have  proved  the  ruin 
of  so  many  of  the  Impressionists.  Still,  the  art  that 
is  frankly  decorative  is  the  art  to  live  with.  It  is,  of 
all  our  visible  arts,  the  one  art  that  creates  in  us 
both  mood  and  temperament.  Mere  colour,  un- 
spoiled   by    meaning,    and    unallied    with    definite 


200  INTENTIONS 

form,  can  speak  to  the  soul  in  a  thousand  different 
ways.  The  harmony  that  resides  in  the  delicate 
proportions  of  lines  and  masses  becomes  mirrored 
in  the  mind.  The  repetitions  of  pattern  give  us 
rest.  The  marvels  of  design  stir  the  imagination. 
In  the  mere  loveliness  of  the  materials  employed 
there  are  latent  elements  of  culture.  Nor  is  this 
all.  By  its  deliberate  rejection  of  Nature  as  the 
ideal  of  beauty,  as  well  as  of  the  imitative  method 
of  the  ordinary  painter,  decorative  art  not  merely 
prepares  the  soul  for  the  reception  of  true  imagi- 
native work,  but  develops  in  it  that  sense  of  form 
which  is  the  basis  of  creative  no  less  than  of  critical 
achievement.  For  the  real  artist  is  he  who  pro- 
ceeds, not  from  feeling  to  form,  but  from  form  to 
thought  and  passion.  He  does  not  first  conceive 
an  idea,  and  then  say  to  himself,  "  I  will  put  my 
idea  into  a  complex  metre  of  fourteen  lines,"  but, 
realizing  the  beauty  of  the  sonnet-scheme,  he  con- 
ceives certain  modes  of  music  and  methods  of  rhyme, 
and  the  mere  form  suggests  what  is  to  fill  it  and 
make  it  intellectually  and  emotionally  complete. 
From  time  to  time  the  world  cries  out  against  some 
charming  artistic  poet,  because,  to  use  its  hackneyed 
and  silly  phrase,  he  has  "  nothing  to  say."  But  if 
he  had  something  to  say,  he  would  probably  say  it, 
and  the  result  would  be  tedious.      It  is  just  because 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  201 

he  has  no  new  message,  that  he  can  do  beautiful  work. 
He  gains  his  inspiration  from  form,  and  from  form 
purely,  as  an  artist  should.  A  real  passion  would 
ruin  him.  Whatever  actually  occurs  is  spoiled  for 
art.  All  bad  poetry  springs  from  genuine  feeling. 
To  be  natural  is  to  be  obvious,  and  to  be  obvious  is 
to  be  inartistic. 

Ernest.  I  wonder  do  you  really  believe  what  you 
say. 

Gilbert.  Why  should  you  wonder?  It  is  not 
merely  in  art  that  the  body  is  the  soul.  In  every 
sphere  of  life  Form  is  the  beginning  of  things. 
The  rhythmic  harmonious  gestures  of  dancing  con- 
vey, Plato  tells  us,  both  rhythm  and  harmony  into 
the  mind.  Forms  are  the  food  of  faith,  cried  New- 
man in  one  of  those  great  moments  of  sincerity 
that  made  us  admire  and  know  the  man.  He  was 
right,  though  he  may  not  have  known  how  terribly 
right  he  was.  The  Creeds  are  believed,  not  because 
they  are  rational,  but  because  they  are  repeated. 
Yes  :  Form  is  everything.  It  ,is  the  secret  of  life. 
Find  expression  for  a  sorrow,  and  it  will  become 
dear  to  you.  Find  expression  for  a  joy,  and  you 
intensify  its  ecstasy.  Do  you  wish  to  love?  Use 
Love's  Litany,  and  the  words  will  create  the  yearn- 
ing from  which  the  world  fancies  that  they  spring. 
Have  you  a  grief  that  corrodes  your  heart  ?     Steep 


202  INTENTIONS 

yourself  in  the  language  of  grief,  learn  its  utterance 
from  Prince  Hamlet  and  Queen  Constance,  and  you 
will  find  that  mere  expression  is  a  mode  of  consola- 
tion, and  that  Form,  which  is  the  birth  of  passion, 
is  also  the  death  of  pain.  And  so,  to  return  to  the 
sphere  of  Art,  it  is  Form  that  creates  not  merely  the 
critical  temperament,  but  also  the  aesthetic  instinct, 
that  unerring  instinct  that  reveals  to  one  all  things 
under  their  conditions  of  beauty.  Start  with  the 
worship  of  form,  and  there  is  no  secret  in  art  that 
will  not  be  revealed  to  you,  and  remember  that  in 
criticism,  as  in  creation,  temperament  is  everything, 
and  that  it  is,  not  by  the  time  of  their  production, 
but  by  the  temperaments  to  which  they  appeal,  that 
the  schools  of  art  should  be  historically  grouped. 

Ernest.  Your  theory  of  education  is  delightful. 
But  what  influence  will  your  critic,  brought  up  in 
these  exquisite  surroundings,  possess?  Do  you 
really  think  that  any  artist  is  ever  affected  by 
criticism? 

Gilbert.  The  influence  of  the  critic  will  be  the 
mere  fact  of  his  own  existence.  He  will  represent 
the  flawless  type.  In  him  the  culture  of  the  cen- 
tury wall  see  itself  realized.  You  must  not  ask  of 
him  to  have  any  aim  other  than  the  perfecting  of 
himself.  The  demand  of  the  intellect,  as  has  been 
well  said,  is  simply  to  feel  itself  alive.     The  critic 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  203 

may,  indeed,  desire  to  exercise  influence ;  but,  if  so, 
he  will  concern  himself  not  with  the  individual,  but 
with  the  age,  which  he  will  seek  to  wake  into  con- 
sciousness, and  to  make  responsive,  creating  in  it 
new  desires  and  appetites,  and  lending  it  his  larger 
vision  and  his  nobler  moods.  The  actual  art  of  to- 
day will  occupy  him  less  than  the  art  of  to-morrow, 
far  less  than  the  art  of  yesterday,  and  as  for  this  or 
that  person  at  present  toiling  away,  what  do  the  in- 
dustrious matter?  They  do  their  best,  no  doubt, 
and  consequently  we  get  the  worst  from  them.  It 
is  always  with  the  best  intentions  that  the  worst 
work  is  done.  And  besides,  my  dear  Ernest,  when 
a  man  reaches  the  age  of  forty,  or  becomes  a  Royal 
Academician,  or  is  elected  a  member  of  the  Athe- 
naeum Club,  or  is  recognized  as  a  popular  novelist, 
whose  books  are  in  great  demand  at  suburban  rail- 
way stations,  one  may  have  the  amusement  of  ex- 
posing him,  but  one  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of 
reforming  him.  And  this  is,  I  dare  say,  very 
fortunate  for  him ;  for  I  have  no  doubt  that  refor- 
mation is  a  much  more  painful  process  than  punish- 
ment— is,  indeed,  punishment  in  its  most  aggra- 
vated and  moral  form — a  fact  which  accounts  for 
our  entire  failure  as  a  community  to  reclaim  that 
interesting  phenomenon  who  is  called  the  confirmed 
criminal. 


204  INTENTIONS 

Ernest.  But  may  it  not  be  that  the  poet  is  the 
best  judge  of  poetry,  and  the  painter  of  painting? 
Each  art  must  appeal  primarily  to  the  artist  who 
works  in  it.  His  judgment  will  surely  be  the  most 
valuable? 

Gilbert.  The  appeal  of  all  art  is  simply  to  the 
artistic  temperament.  Art  does  not  address  herself 
to  the  specialist.  Her  claim  is  that  she  is  universal, 
and  that  in  all  her  manifestations  she  is  one.  In- 
deed, so  far  from  its  being  true  that  the  artist  is  the 
best  judge  of  art,  a  really  great  artist  can  never 
judge  of  other  people's  work  at  all,  and  can  hardly, 
in  fact,  judge  of  his  own.  That  very  concentration 
of  vision  that  makes  a  man  an  artist,  limits  by  its 
sheer  intensity  his  faculty  of  fine  appreciation. 
The  energy  of  creation  hurries  him  blindly  on  to 
his  own  goal.  The  wheels  of  his  chariot  raise  the 
dust  as  a  cloud  around  him.  The  gods  are  hidden 
from  each  other.  They  can  recognize  their  wor- 
shippers.    That  is  all. 

Ernest.  You  say  that  a  great  artist  cannot  recog- 
nize the  beauty  of  work  different  from  his  own. 

Gilbert.  It  is  impossible  for  him  to  do  so.  Words- 
worth saw  in  E?idymion  merely  a  pretty  piece  of 
Paganism,  and  Shelley,  with  his  dislike  of  actuality, 
was  deaf  to  Wordsworth's  message,  being  repelled 
by    its    form,    and    Byron,    that     great    passionate 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  205 

human  incomplete  creature,  could  appreciate 
neither  the  poet  of  the  cloud  nor  the  poet  of  the 
lake,  and  the  wonder  of  Keats  was  hidden  from 
him.  The  realism  of  Euripides  was  hateful  to 
Sophokles.  Those  droppings  of  warm  tears  had  no 
music  for  him.  Milton,  with  his  sense  of  the  grand 
style,  could  not  understand  the  method  of  Shake- 
speare, any  more  than  could  Sir  Joshua  the  method 
of  Gainsborough.  Bad  artists  always  admire  each 
other's  worth.  They  call  it  being  large-minded  and 
free  from  prejudice.  But  a  truly  great  artist  can- 
not conceive  of  life  being  shown,  or  beauty 
fashioned,  under  any  conditions  other  than  those 
that  he  has  selected.  Creation  employs  all  its  critical 
faculty  within  its  own  sphere.  It  may  not  use  it  in 
the  sphere  that  belongs  to  others.  It  is  exactly  be- 
cause a  man  cannot  do  a  thing  that  he  is  the  proper 
judge  of  it. 

Ernest.  Do  you  really  mean  that? 

Gilbert.  Yes,  for  creation  limits,  while  contempla- 
tion widens,  the  vision. 

Ernest.  But  what  about  technique?  Surely  each 
art  has  its  separate  technique  ? 

Gilbert.  Certainly :  each  art  has  its  grammar  and 
its  materials.  There  is  no  mystery  about  either, 
and  the  incompetent  can  always  be  correct.  But, 
while  the  laws  upon  which  Art  rests  may  be  fixed 


206  INTENTIONS 

and  certain  to  find  their  true  realization,  they  must 
be  touched  by  the  imagination  into  such  beauty 
that  they  will  seem  an  exception,  each  one  of 
them.  Technique  is  really  personality.  That  is 
the  reason  why  the  artist  cannot  teach  it,  why  the 
pupil  cannot  learn  it,  and  why  the  aesthetic  critic 
can  understand  it.  To  the  great  poet,  there  is  only 
one  method  of  music — his  own.  To  the  great 
painter  there  is  only  one  manner  of  painting — that 
which  he  himself  employs.  The  aesthetic  critic,  and 
the  aesthetic  critic  alone,  can  appreciate  all  forms 
and  modes.      It  is  to  him  that  Art  makes  her  appeal. 

Ernest.  Well,  I  think  I  have  put  all  my  questions 
to  you.      And  now  I  must  admit — 

Gilbert.  Ah !  don't  say  that  you  agree  with  me. 
When  people  agree  with  me  I  always  feel  that  I 
must  be  wrong. 

Ernest.  In  that  case  I  certainly  won't  tell  you 
whether  I  agree  with  you  or  not.  But  I  will  put 
another  question.  You  have  explained  to  me  that 
criticism  is  a  creative  art.     What  future  has  it? 

Gilbert.  It  is  to  criticism  that  the  future  belongs. 
The  subject-matter  at  the  disposal  of  creation  be- 
comes every  day  more  limited  in  extent  and  variety. 
Providence  and  Mr.  Walter  Besant  have  exhausted 
the  obvious.  If  creation  is  to  last  at  all,  it  can  only 
do  so  on  the  condition  of  becoming  far  more  critical 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  207 

than  it  is  at  present.  The  old  roads  and  dusty 
highways  have  been  traversed  too  often.  Their 
charm  has  been  worn  away  by  plodding  feet,  and 
they  have  lost  that  element  of  novelty  or  surprise 
which  is  so  essential  for  romance.  He  who  would 
stir  us  now  by  fiction  must  either  give  us  an  en- 
tirely new  background,  or  reveal  to  us  the  soul  of 
man  in  its  innermost  workings.  The  first  is  for  the 
moment  being  done  for  us  by  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling. 
As  one  turns  over  the  pages  of  his  Plain  Tales  from 
the  Hills,  one  feels  as  if  one  were  seated  under  a 
palm-tree  reading  life  by  superb  flashes  of  vulgarity. 
The  bright  colours  of  the  bazaars  dazzle  one's  eyes. 
The  jaded,  second-rate  Anglo-Indians  are  in  ex- 
quisite incongruity  with  their  surroundings.  The 
mere  lack  of  style  in  the  story-teller  gives  an  odd 
journalistic  realism  to  what  he  tells  us.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  literature  Mr.  Kipling  is  a  genius 
who  drops  his  aspirates.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  life,  he  is  a  reporter  who  knows  vulgarity 
better  than  any  one  has  ever  known  it.  Dickens 
knew  its  clothes  and  its  comedy.  Mr.  Kipling 
knows  its  essence  and  its  seriousness.  He  is  our 
first  authority  on  the  second-rate,  and  has  seen 
marvellous  things  through  key-holes,  and  his  back- 
grounds are  real  works  of  art.  As  for  the  second 
condition,  we  have  had  Browning,  and  Meredith  is 


208  INTENTIONS 

with  us.  But  there  is  still  much  to  be  done  in  the 
sphere  of  introspection.  People  sometimes  say  that 
fiction  is  getting  too  morbid.  As  far  as  psychology- 
is  concerned,  it  has  never  been  morbid  enough.  We 
have  merely  touched  the  surface  of  the  soul,  that  is 
all.  In  one  single  ivory  cell  of  the  brain  there  are 
stored  away  things  more  marvellous  and  more  ter- 
rible than  even  they  have  dreamed  of,  who,  like  the 
author  of  Le  Rouge  et  le  Noir,  have  sought  to  track 
the  soul  into  its  most  secret  places,  and  to  make 
life  confess  its  dearest  sins.  Still,  there  is  a  limit 
even  to  the  number  of  untried  backgrounds,  and  it 
is  possible  that  a  further  development  of  the  habit 
of  introspection  may  prove  fatal  to  that  creative 
faculty  to  which  it  seeks  to  supply  fresh  material.  I 
myself  am  inclined  to  think  that  creation  is  doomed. 
It  springs  from  too  primitive,  too  natural  an  im- 
pulse. However  this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  the 
subject-matter  at  the  disposal  of  creation  is  always 
diminishing,  while  the  subject-matter  of  criticism 
increases  daily.  There  are  always  new  attitudes 
for  the  mind,  and  new  points  of  view.  The  duty  of 
imposing  form  upon  chaos  does  not  grow  less  as  the 
world  advances.  There  was  never  a  time  when 
Criticism  was  more  needed  than  it  is  now.  It  is 
only  by  its  means  that  Humanity  can  become  con- 
scious of  the  point  at  which  it  has  arrived. 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  200, 

Hours  ago,  Ernest,  you  asked  me  the  use  of  Crit- 
icism. You  might  just  as  well  have  asked  me  the 
use  of  thought.  It  is  Criticism,  as  Arnold  points 
out,  that  creates  the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  the 
age.  It  is  Criticism,  as  I  hope  to  point  out  myself 
some  day,  that  makes  the  mind  a  fine  instrument. 
We,  in  our  educational  system,  have  burdened  the 
memory  with  a  load  of  unconnected  facts,  and 
laboriously  striven  to  impart  our  laboriously-ac- 
quired knowledge.  We  teach  people  how  to  re- 
member, we  never  teach  them  how  to  grow.  It 
has  never  occurred  to  us  to  try  and  develop  in  the 
mind  a  more  subtle  quality  of  apprehension  and  dis- 
cernment. The  Greeks  did  this,  and  when  we  come 
in  contact  with  the  Greek  critical  intellect,  we  can- 
not but  be  conscious  that,  while  our  subject-matter 
is  in  every  respect  larger  and  more  varied  than  theirs, 
theirs  is  the  only  method  by  which  this  subject-mat- 
ter can  be  interpreted.  England  has  done  one  thing  ; 
it  has  invented  and  established  Public  Opinion,  which 
is  an  attempt  to  organize  the  ignorance  of  the  com- 
munity, and  to  elevate  it  to  the  dignity  of  physical 
force.  But  Wisdom  has  always  been  hidden  from 
it.  Considered  as  an  instrument  of  thought,  the  Eng- 
lish mind  is  coarse  and  undeveloped.  The  only 
thing  that  can  purify  it  is  the  growth  of  the  critical 
instinct. 


2IO  INTENTIONS 

It  is  Criticism,  again,  that,  by  concentration,  makes 
culture  possible.  It  takes  the  cumbersome  mass  of 
creative  work,  and  distils  it  into  a  finer  essence. 
Who  that  desires  to  retain  any  sense  of  form  could 
struggle  through  the  monstrous  multitudinous  books 
that  the  world  has  produced,  books  in  which  thought 
stammers  or  ignorance  brawls  ?  The  thread  that  is 
to  guide  us  across  the  wearisome  labyrinth  is  in  the 
hands  of  Criticism.  Nay  more,  where  there  is  no 
record,  and  history  is  either  lost  or  was  never  written, 
Criticism  can  recreate  the  past  for  us  from  the  very 
smallest  fragment  of  language  or  art,  just  as  surely  as 
the  man  of  science  can  from  some  tiny  bone,  or  the 
mere  impress  of  a  foot  upon  a  rock,  recreate  for  us 
the  winged  dragon  or  Titan  lizard  that  once  made 
the  earth  shake  beneath  its  tread,  can  call  Behemoth 
out  of  his  cave,  and  make  Leviathan  swim  once 
more  across  the  startled  sea.  Prehistoric  history  be- 
longs to  the  philological  and  archaeological  critic.  It 
is  to  him  that  the  origins  of  things  are  revealed.  The 
self-conscious  deposits  of  an  age  are  nearly  always 
misleading.  Through  philological  criticism  alone  we 
know  more  of  the  centuries  of  which  no  actual  record 
has  been  preserved,  than  we  do  of  the  centuries  that 
have  left  us  their  scrolls.  It  can  do  for  us  what  can 
be  done  neither  by  physics  nor  metaphysics.  It 
can  give  us  the  exact  science  of  mind  in  the  process 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  211 

of  becoming.  It  can  do  for  us  what  History  can- 
not do.  It  can  tell  us  what  man  thought  before  he 
learned  how  to  write.  You  have  asked  me  about 
the  influence  of  Criticism.  I  think  I  have  answered 
that  question  already ;  but  there  is  this  also  to  be 
said.  It  is  Criticism  that  makes  us  cosmopolitan. 
The  Manchester  school  tried  to  make  men  realize 
the  brotherhood  of  humanity,  by  pointing  out  the 
commercial  advantages  of  peace.  It  sought  to  de- 
grade the  wonderful  world  into  a  common  market- 
place for  the  buyer  and  the  seller.  It  addressed  itself 
to  the  lowest  instincts,  and  it  failed.  War  followed 
upon  war,  and  the  tradesman's  creed  did  not  pre- 
vent France  and  Germany  from  clashing  together  in 
blood-stained  battle.  There  are  others  of  our  own 
day  who  seek  to  appeal  to  mere  emotional  sympa- 
thies, or  to  the  shallow  dogmas  of  some  vague  system 
of  abstract  ethics.  They  have  their  Peace  Societies, 
so  dear  to  the  sentimentalists,  and  their  proposals  for 
unarmed  International  Arbitration,  so  popular  among 
those  who  have  never  read  history.  But  mere  emo- 
tional sympathy  will  not  do.  It  is  too  variable,  and 
too  closely  connected  with  the  passions  ;  and  a  board 
of  arbitrators  who,  for  the  general  welfare  of  the  race, 
are  to  be  deprived  of  the  power  of  putting  their  de- 
cisions into  execution,  will  not  be  of  much  avail. 
There   is  only  one  thing  worse    than  Injustice,  and 


212  INTENTIONS 

that  is  Justice  without  her  sword  in  her  hand.    When 
Right  is  not  Might,  it  is  Evil. 

No  :  the  emotions  will  not  make  us  cosmopolitan, 
any  more  than  the  greed  for  gain  could  do  so.  It  is 
only  by  the  cultivation  of  the  habit  of  intellectual 
criticism  that  we  shall  be  able  to  rise  superior  to  race 
prejudices.  Goethe — you  will  not  misunderstand 
what  I  say — was  a  German  of  the  Germans.  He 
loved  his  country — no  man  more  so.  Its  people  were 
dear  to  him ;  and  he  led  them.  Yet,  when  the  iron 
hoof  of  Napoleon  trampled  upon  vineyard  and  corn- 
field, his  lips  were  silent.  "  How  can  one  write  songs 
of  hatred  without  hating?"  he  said  to  Eckermann, 
"  and  how  could  I,  to  whom  culture  and  barbarism 
are  alone  of  importance,  hate  a  nation  which  is  among 
the  most  cultivated  of  the  earth,  and  to  which  I  owe 
so  great  a  part  of  my  own  cultivation?  "  This  note, 
sounded  in  the  modern  world  by  Goethe  first,  will  be- 
come, I  think,  the  starting  point  for  the  cosmopoli- 
tanism of  the  future.  Criticism  will  annihilate  race 
prejudices,  by  insisting  upon  the  unity  of  the  human 
mind  in  the  variety  of  its  forms.  If  we  are  tempted 
to  make  war  upon  another  nation,  we  shall  remem- 
ber that  we  are  seeking  to  destroy  an  element  of  our 
own  culture,  and  possibly  its  most  important  ele- 
ment. As  long  as  war  is  regarded  as  wicked,  it  will 
always  have  its  fascination.     When  it  is  looked  upon 


THE  CRITIC   AS  ARTIST  21  3 

as  vulgar,  it  will  cease  to  be  popular.  The  change 
will,  of  course,  be  slow,  and  people  will  not  be  con- 
scious of  it.  They  will  not  say  "  We  will  not  war 
against  France  because  her  prose  is  perfect,"  but  be- 
cause the  prose  of  France  is  perfect  they  will  not 
hate  the  land.  Intellectual  criticism  will  bind  Eu- 
rope together  in  bonds  far  closer  than  those  that  can 
be  forged  by  shopman  or  sentimentalist.  It  will 
give  us  the  peace  that  springs  from  understanding. 
Nor  is  this  all.  It  is  Criticism  that,  recognizing 
no  position  as  final,  and  refusing  to  bind  itself  by 
the  shallow  shibboleths  of  any  sect  or  school,  creates 
that  serene  philosophic  temper  which  loves  truth  for 
its  own  sake,  and  loves  it  not  the  less  because  it 
knows  it  to  be  unattainable.  How  little  we  have  of 
this  temper  in  England,  and  how  much  we  need  it! 
The  English  mind  is  always  in  a  rage.  The  intel- 
lect of  the  race  is  wasted  in  the  sordid  and  stupid 
quarrels  of  second-rate  politicians  or  third-rate  the- 
ologians. It  was  reserved  for  a  man  of  science  to 
show  us  the  supreme  example  of  that  "  sweet  rea- 
sonableness "  of  which  Arnold  spoke  so  wisely,  and, 
alas!  to  so  little  effect.  The  author  of  the  Origin 
of  Species  had,  at  any  rate,  the  philosophic  temper. 
If  one  contemplates  the  ordinary  pulpits  and  plat- 
forms of  England,  one  can  but  feel  the  contempt  of 
Julian,  or  the  indifference  of  Montaigne.     We  are 


214  INTENTIONS 

dominated  by  the  fanatic,  whose  worst  vice  is  his  sin- 
cerity. Anything  approaching  to  the  free  play  of 
the  mind  is  practically  unknown  amongst  us.  Peo- 
ple cry  out  against  the  sinner,  yet  it  is  not  the  sinful, 
but  the  stupid,  who  are  our  shame.  There  is  no  sin 
except  stupidity. 

Ernest.  Ah !    what  an  antinomian  you  are ! 

Gilbert.  The  artistic  critic,  like  the  mystic,  is  an 
antinomian  always.  To  be  good,  according  to  the 
vulgar  standard  of  goodness,  is  obviously  quite 
easy.  It  merely  requires  a  certain  amount  of  sordid 
terror,  a  certain  lack  of  imaginative  thought,  and  a 
certain  low  passion  for  middle-class  respectability. 
^Esthetics  are  higher  than  ethics.  They  belong  to 
a  more  spiritual  sphere.  To  discern  the  beauty  of  a 
thing  is  the  finest  point  to  which  we  can  arrive. 
Even  a  colour-sense  is  more  important,  in  the  de- 
velopment of  the  individual,  than  a  sense  of  right 
and  wrong.  ^Esthetics,  in  fact,  are  to  Ethics  in  the 
sphere  of  conscious  civilization,  what,  in  the  sphere 
of  the  external  world,  sexual  is  to  natural  selection. 
Ethics,  like  natural  selection,  make  existence  possi- 
ble. ^Esthetics,  like  sexual  selection,  make  life 
lovely  and  wonderful,  fill  it  with  new  forms,  and 
give  it  progress,  and  variety  and  change.  And  when 
we  reach  the  true  culture  that  is  our  aim,  we  attain 
to  that  perfection  of  which  the  saints  have  dreamed, 


THE  CRITIC  AS  ARTIST  21 5 

the  perfection  of  those  to  whom  sin  is  impossible, 
not  because  they  make  the  renunciations  of  the 
ascetic,  but  because  they  can  do  everything  they 
wish  without  hurt  to  the  soul,  and  can  wish  for 
nothing  that  can  do  the  soul  harm,  the  soul  being 
an  entity  so  divine  that  it  is  able  to  transform  into 
elements  of  a  richer  experience,  or  a  finer  suscepti- 
bility, or  a  newer  mode  of  thought,  acts  or  passions 
that  with  the  common  would  be  commonplace, 
or  with  the  uneducated,  ignoble,  or  with  the 
shameful  vile.  Is  this  dangerous  ?  Yes ;  it  is 
dangerous  —  all  ideas,  as  I  told  you,  are  so.  But 
the  night  wearies,  and  the  light  flickers  in  the  lamp. 
One  more  thing  I  cannot  help  saying  to  you.  You 
have  spoken  against  Criticism  as  being  a  sterile 
thing.  The  nineteenth  century  is  a  turning  point 
in  history  simply  on  account  of  the  work  of  two  men, 
Darwin  and  Renan,  the  one  the  critic  of  the  Book 
of  Nature,  the  other  the  critic  of  the  books  of  God. 
Not  to  recognize  this  is  to  miss  the  meaning  of  one 
of  the  most  important  eras  in  the  progress  of  the 
world.  Creation  is  always  behind  the  age.  It  is 
Criticism  that  leads  us.  The  Critical  Spirit  and  the 
World-Spirit  are  one. 

Ernest.  And  he  who  is  in  possession  of  this  spirit, 
or  whom  this  spirit  possesses,  will,  I  suppose,  do 
nothing  ? 


2l6  INTENTIONS 

Gilbert.  Like  the  Persephone  of  whom  Landor 
tells  us,  the  sweet  pensive  Persephone  around  whose 
white  feet  the  asphodel  and  amaranth  are  blooming, 
he  will  sit  contented  "  in  that  deep,  motionless  quiet 
which  mortals  pity,  and  which  the  gods  enjoy."  He 
will  look  out  upon  the  world  and  know  its  secret. 
By  contact  with  divine  things,  he  will  become  divine. 
His  will  be  the  perfect  life,  and  his  only. 

Ernest.  You  have  told  me  many  strange  things 
to-night,  Gilbert.  You  have  told  me  that  it  is  more 
difficult  to  talk  about  a  thing  than  to  do  it,  and  that 
to  do  nothing  at  all  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the 
world ;  you  have  told  me  that  all  Art  is  immoral, 
and  all  thought  dangerous;  that  criticism  is  more 
creative  than  creation,  and  that  the  highest  criticism 
is  that  which  reveals  in  the  work  of  Art  what  the 
artist  had  not  put  there ;  that  it  is  exactly  because  a 
man  cannot  do  a  thing  that  he  is  the  proper  judge 
of  it ;  and  that  the  true  critic  is  unfair,  insincere,  and 
not  rational.      My  friend,  you  are  a  dreamer. 

Gilbert.  Yes ;  I  am  a  dreamer.  For  a  dreamer  is 
one  who  can  only  find  his  way  by  moonlight,  and 
his  punishment  is  that  he  sees  the  dawn  before  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

Ernest.  His  punishment? 

Gilbert.  And  his  reward.  But  see,  it  is  dawn 
already.      Draw   back   the    curtains   and   open   the 


THE   CRITIC   AS  ARTIST  21  7 

windows  wide.  How  cool  the  morning  air  is !  Picca- 
dilly lies  at  our  feet  like  a  long  riband  of  silver.  A 
faint  purple  mist  hangs  over  the  Park,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  white  houses  are  purple.  It  is  too 
late  to  sleep.  Let  us  go  down  to  Covent  Garden 
and  look  at  the  roses.  Come !  I  am  tired  of 
thought. 


THE    TRUTH    OF    MASKS 

A    NOTE    ON    ILLUSION 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS 


In  many  of  the  somewhat  violent  attacks  that  have 
recently  been  made  on  that  splendour  of  mounting 
which  now  characterizes  our  Shakespearian  revivals 
in  England,  it  seems  to  have  been  tacitly  assumed 
by  the  critics  that  Shakespeare  himself  was  more  or 
less  indifferent  to  the  costume  of  his  actors,  and 
that,  could  he  see  Mrs.  Langtry's  production  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  he  would  probably  say  that 
the  play,  and  the  play  only,  is  the  thing,  and  that 
everything  else  is  leather  and  prunella.  While,  as 
regards  any  historical  accuracy  in  dress,  Lord 
Lytton,  in  an  article  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  has 
laid  it  down  as  a  dogma  of  art  that  archaeology  is 
entirely  out  of  place  in  the  presentation  of  any  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  and  the  attempt  to  introduce  it 
one  of  the  stupidest  pedantries  of  an  age  of  prigs. 

Lord  Lytton's  position  I  shall  examine  later  on ; 
but,  as  regards  the  theory  that  Shakespeare  did  not 


222  INTENTIONS 

busy  himself  much  about  the  costume-wardrobe  of 
his  theatre,  anybody  who  cares  to  study  Shake- 
speare's method  will  see  that  there  is  absolutely  no 
dramatist  of  the  French,  English,  or  Athenian  stage 
who  relies  so  much  for  his  illusionist  effects  on  the 
dress  of  his  actors  as  Shakespeare  does  himself. 

Knowing  how  the  artistic  temperament  is  always 
fascinated  by  beauty  of  costume,  he  constantly  in- 
troduces into  his  plays  masques  and  dances,  purely 
for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  which  they  give  the 
eye;  and  we  have  still  his  stage  directions  for  the 
three  great  processions  in  Henry  the  Eighth,  direc- 
tions which  are  characterized  by  the  most  extraor- 
dinary elaborateness  of  detail  down  to  the  collars 
of  S.S.  and  the  pearls  in  Anne  Boleyn's  hair.  In- 
deed, it  would  be  quite  easy  for  a  modern  manager 
to  reproduce  these  pageants  absolutely  as  Shake- 
speare had  them  designed ;  and  so  accurate  were 
they  that  one  of  the  Court  officials  of  the  time, 
writing  an  account  of  the  last  performance  of  the 
play  at  the  Globe  Theatre  to  a  friend,  actually  com- 
plains of  their  realistic  character,  notably  of  the 
production  on  the  stage  of  the  Knights  of  the  Gar- 
ter in  the  robes  and  insignia  of  the  order,  as  being 
calculated  to  bring  ridicule  on  the  real  ceremonies ; 
much  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  the  French 
Government,  some   time   ago,  prohibited   that  de- 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  223 

lightful  actor,  M.  Christian,  from  appearing  in  uni- 
form, on  the  plea  that  it  was  prejudicial  to  the  glory 
of  the  army  that  a  colonel  should  be  caricatured. 
And  elsewhere  the  gorgeousness  of  apparel  which 
distinguished  the  English  stage  under  Shakespeare's 
influence  was  attacked  by  the  contemporary  critics, 
not  as  a  rule,  however,  on  the  grounds  of  the  demo- 
cratic tendencies  of  realism,  but  usually  on  those 
moral  grounds  which  are  always  the  last  refuge  of 
people  who  have  no  sense  of  beauty. 

The  point,  however,  which  I  wish  to  emphasize 
is,  not  that  Shakespeare  appreciated  the  value  of 
lovely  costumes  in  adding  picturesqueness  to 
poetry,  but  that  he  saw  how  important  costume  is 
as  a  means  of  producing  certain  dramatic  effects. 
Many  of  his  plays,  such  as  Measure  for  Measure, 
Twelfth  Night,  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Cymbeline,  and  others, 
depend  for  their  illusion  on  the  character  of  the 
various  dresses  worn  by  the  hero  or  the  heroine ; 
the  delightful  scene  in  Henry  the  Sixth,  on  the 
modern  miracles  of  healing  by  faith,  loses  all  its 
point  unless  Gloster  is  in  black  and  scarlet ;  and  the 
denoiiment  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  hinges 
on  the  colour  of  Anne  Page's  gown.  As  for  the 
uses  Shakespeare  makes  of  disguises,  the  instances 
are  almost  numberless.     Posthumus  hides  his  pas- 


224  INTENTIONS 

sion  under  a  peasant's  garb,  and  Edgar  his  pride 
beneath  an  idiot's  rags ;  Portia  wears  the  apparel  of 
a  lawyer,  and  Rosalind  is  attired  in  all  points  as  a 
man ;  the  cloak-bag  of  Pisanio  changes  Imogen 
to  the  youth  Fidele ;  Jessica  flees  from  her  father's 
house  in  boy's  dress,  and  Julia  ties  up  her  yellow 
hair  in  fantastic  love-knots,  and  dons  hose  and 
doublet;  Henry  the  Eighth  woos  his  lady  as  a 
shepherd,  and  Romeo  his  as  a  pilgrim ;  Prince  Hal 
and  Poins  appear  first  as  footpads  in  buckram  suits, 
and  then  in  white  aprons  and  leather  jerkins  as  the 
waiters  in  a  tavern ;  and  as  for  Falstaff,  does  he  not 
come  on  as  a  highwayman,  as  an  old  woman,  as 
Heme  the  Hunter,  and  as  the  clothes  going  to  the 
laundry? 

Nor  are  the  examples  of  the  employment  of  cos- 
tume as  a  mode  of  intensifying  dramatic  situation 
less  numerous.  After  the  slaughter  of  Duncan,  Mac- 
beth appears  in  his  night-gown  as  if  aroused  from 
sleep;  Timon  ends  in  rags  the  play  he  had  begun 
in  splendour;  Richard  flatters  the  London  citizens 
in  a  suit  of  mean  and  shabby  armour,  and,  as  soon 
as  he  has  stepped  in  blood  to  the  throne,  marches 
through  the  streets  in  crown  and  George  and  Gar- 
ter; the  climax  of  the  Tempest  is  reached  when 
Prospero,  throwing  off  his  enchanter's  robes,  sends 
Ariel  for  his  hat  and  rapier,  and  reveals  himself  as 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  225 

the  great  Italian  Duke ;  the  very  Ghost  in  Hamlet 
changes  his  mystical  apparel  to  produce  different 
effects;  and  as  for  Juliet,  a  modern  playwright 
would  probably  have  laid  her  out  in  her  shroud, 
and  made  the  scene  a  scene  of  horror  merely,  but 
Shakespeare  arrays  her  in  rich  and  gorgeous  rai- 
ment, whose  loveliness  makes  the  vault  "  a  feasting 
presence  full  of  light,"  turns  the  tomb  into  a  bridal 
chamber,  and  gives  the  cue  and  motive  for  Romeo's 
speech  on  the  triumph  of  Beauty  over  Death. 

Even  small  details  of  dress,  such  as  the  colour  of 
a  major-domo's  stockings,  the  pattern  on  a  wife's 
handkerchief,  the  sleeve  of  a  young  soldier,  and  a 
fashionable  woman's  bonnets,  become  in  Shake- 
speare's hands  points  of  actual  dramatic  importance, 
and  by  some  of  them  the  action  of  the  play  in  ques- 
tion is  conditioned  absolutely.  Many  other  drama- 
tists have  availed  themselves  of  costume  as  a  method 
of  expressing  directly  to  the  audience  the  character 
of  a  person  on  his  entrance,  though  hardly  so  bril- 
liantly as  Shakespeare  has  done  in  the  case  of  the 
dandy  Parolles,  whose  dress,  by  the  way,  only  an 
archaeologist  can  understand ;  the  fun  of  a  master 
and  servants  exchanging  coats  in  presence  of  the 
audience,  of  shipwrecked  sailors  squabbling  over 
the  division  of  a  lot  of  fine  clothes,  and  of  a  tinker 
dressed  up  like  a  duke  while  he  Is  in  his  cups,  may 


226  INTENTIONS 

be   regarded   as   part    of    that   great  career  which 
costume  has  always  played   in  comedy  from   the 
time  of  Aristophanes  down    to    Mr.   Gilbert;    but 
nobody    from    the    mere    details    of    apparel    and 
adornment  has  ever  drawn  such  irony  of  contrast, 
such  immediate   and   tragic   effect,   such  pity  and 
such  pathos,  as  Shakespeare  himself.     Armed  cap- 
a-pie,  the  dead  king  stalks  on  the  battlements  of 
Elsinore   because   all  is   not  right  with  Denmark ; 
Shylock's  Jewish  gaberdine  is  part  of  the  stigma 
under  which  that  wounded  and  embittered  nature 
writhes;  Arthur  begging  for  his  life  can  think  of 
no  better  plea  than  the  handkerchief  he  had  given 
Hubert- 
Have  you  the  heart  ?  when  your  head  did  but  ache, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me) 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again. 

and  Orlando's  blood-stained  napkin  strikes  the  first 
sombre  note  in  that  exquisite  woodland  idyll,  and 
shows  us  the  depth  of  feeling  that  underlies  Rosa- 
lind's fanciful  wit  and  wilful  jesting. 

Last  night  'twas  on  my  arm  ;   I  kissed  it; 
I  hope  it  be  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

says  Imogen,  jesting  on  the  loss  of  the  bracelet 
which  was  already  on  its  way  to  Rome  to  rob  her 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  227 

of  her  husband's  faith ;  the  little  Prince  passing  to 
the  Tower  plays  with  the  dagger  in  his  uncle's 
girdle ;  Duncan  sends  a  ring  to  Lady  Macbeth  on 
the  night  of  his  own  murder,  and  the  ring  of  Portia 
turns  the  tragedy  of  the  merchant  into  a  wife's 
comedy.  The  great  rebel  York  dies  with  a  paper 
crown  on  his  head ;  Hamlet's  black  suit  is  a  kind  of 
colour-motive  in  the  piece,  like  the  mourning  of 
Chimene  in  the  Cid ;  and  the  climax  of  Antony's 
speech  is  the  production  of  Caesar's  cloak :  — 

I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on. 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 
The  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii :  — 
Look,  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through  : 
See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  : 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed.   .   .   . 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded? 

The  flowers  which  Ophelia  carries  with  her  in 
her  madness  are  as  pathetic  as  the  violets  that 
blossom  on  a  grave ;  the  effect  of  Lear's  wandering 
on  the  heath  is  intensified  beyond  words  by  his 
fantastic  attire ;  and  when  Cloten,  stung  by  the 
taunt  of  that  simile  which  his  sister  draws  from  her 
husband's  raiment,  arrays  himself  in  that  husband's 
very  garb  to  work  upon  her  the  deed  of  shame,  we 
feel  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  whole  of  modern 


228 


INTENTIONS 


French  realism,  nothing  even  in  The'rese  Raqnin, 
that  masterpiece  of  horror,  which  for  terrible  and 
tragic  significance  can  compare  with  this  strange 
scene  in  Cymbeline. 

In  the  actual  dialogue  also  some  of  the  most 
vivid  passages  are  those  suggested  by  costume. 
Rosalind's 

Dost  thou  think,  though  I  am  caparisoned  like  a  man,  I 
have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ? 

Constance's 

Grief  fills  the  place  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 

and  the  quick  sharp  cry  of  Elizabeth — 

Ah  !  cut  my  lace  asunder  ! 

are  only  a  few  of  the  many  examples  one  might 
quote.  One  of  the  finest  effects  I  have  ever  seen 
on  the  stage  was  Salvini,  in  the  last  act  of  Lear, 
tearing  the  plume  from  Kent's  cap  and  applying  it 
to  Cordelia's  lips  when  he  came  to  the  line, 

This  feather  stirs  ;   she  lives  ! 

Mr.  Booth,  whose  Lear  had  many  noble  qualities 
of  passion,  plucked,  I  remember,  some  fur  from  his 
archaeologically-incorrect  ermine  for  the  same  busi- 
ness ;  but  Salvini's  was  the  finer  effect  of  the  two, 
as   well   as   the   truer.       And  those  who  saw   Mr. 


THE  TRUTH  OF   MASKS  229 

Irving  in  the  last  act  of   Richard  the   Third  have 

not,  I  am  sure,  forgotten  how  much  the  agony  and 

terror  of  his   dream   was   intensified,   by   contrast, 

through  the  calm  and  quiet  that  preceded  it,  and  the 

delivery  of  such  lines  as 

What,  is  my  beaver  easier  than  it  was  ? 

And  all  my  armour  laid  into  my  tent? 

Look  that  my  staves  be  sound  and  not  too  heavy — 

lines  which  had  a  double  meaning  for  the  audience 
remembering  the  last  words  which  Richard's  mother 
called  after  him  as  he  was  marching  to  Bosworth  :  — 

Therefore  take  with  thee  my  most  grievous  curse, 
Which  in  the  day  of  battle  tire  thee  more 
Than  all  the  complete  armour  that  thou  wear'st. 

As  regards  the  resources  which  Shakespeare  had 
at  his  disposal,  it  is  to  be  remarked  that,  while  he 
more  than  once  complains  of  the  smallness  of  the 
stage  on  which  he  has  to  produce  big  historical  plays, 
and  of  the  want  of  scenery  which  obliges  him  to  cut 
out  many  effective  open-air  incidents,  he  always 
writes  as  a  dramatist  who  had  at  his  disposal  a  most 
elaborate  theatrical  wardrobe,  and  who  could  rely  on 
the  actors  taking  pains  about  their  make-up.  Even 
now  it  is  difficult  to  produce  such  a  play  as  the  Com- 
edy of  Errors ;  and  to  the  picturesque  accident  of 
Miss  Ellen  Terry's  brother  resembling  herself  we 
owed    the    opportunity  of   seeing    Twelfth    Night 


230  INTENTIONS 

adequately  performed.  Indeed,  to  put  any  play  of 
Shakespeare's  on  the  stage,  absolutely  as  he  himself 
wished  it  to  be  done,  requires  the  services  of  a  good 
property-man,  a  clever  wig-maker,  a  costumier  with 
a  sense  of  colour  and  a  knowledge  of  textures,  a 
master  of  the  methods  of  making-up,  a  fencing-mas- 
ter, a  dancing-master,  and  an  artist  to  personally 
direct  the  whole  production.  For  he  is  most  careful 
to  tell  us  the  dress  and  appearance  of  each  charac- 
ter. "  Racine  abhorre  la  realite,"  says  Auguste 
Vacquerie  somewhere ;  "  il  ne  daigne  pas  s'occuper 
de  son  costume.  Si  Ton  s'en  rapportait  aux  indica- 
tions du  poete,  Agamemnon  serait  vetu  d'un  sceptre 
et  Achille  d'une  epee."  But  with  Shakespeare  it  is 
very  different.  He  gives  us  directions  about  the  cos- 
tumes of  Perdita,  Florizel,  Autolycus,  the  witches  in 
Macbeth,  and  the  apothecary  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
several  elaborate  descriptions  of  his  fat  knight,  and 
a  detailed  account  of  the  extraordinary  garb  in  which 
Petruchio  is  to  be  married.  Rosalind,  he  tells  us,  is 
tall,  and  is  to  carry  a  spear  and  a  little  dagger ;  Celia 
is  smaller,  and  is  to  paint  her  face  brown  so  as  to  look 
sunburnt.  The  children  who  play  at  fairies  in  Wind- 
sor Forest  are  to  be  dressed  in  white  and  green — a 
compliment,  by  the  way,  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  whose 
favourite  colours  they  were — and  in  white,  with  green 
garlands  and  green  vizors,  the  angels  are  to  come  to 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  23  I 

Katherine  in  Kimbolton.  Bottom  is  in  homespun, 
Lysander  is  distinguished  from  Oberon  by  his  wear- 
ing an  Athenian  dress,  and  Launce  has  holes  in  his 
boots.  The  Duchess  of  Gloucester  stands  in  a  white 
sheet  with  her  husband  in  mourning  beside  her.  The 
motley  of  the  Fool,  the  scarlet  of  the  Cardinal,  and 
the  French  lilies  broidered  on  the  English  coats, 
are  all  made  occasion  for  jest  or  taunt  in  the  dialogue. 
We  know  the  patterns  on  the  Dauphin's  armour  and 
the  Pucelle's  sword,  the  crest  on  Warwick's  helmet 
and  the  colour  of  Bardolph's  nose.  Portia  has  golden 
hair,  Phcebe  is  black-haired,  Orlando  has  chestnut 
curls,  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek's  hair  hangs  like 
flax  on  a  distaff,  and  won't  curl  at  all.  Some  of  the 
characters  are  stout,  some  lean,  some  straight,  some 
hunchbacked,  some  fair,  some  dark,  and  some  are  to 
blacken  their  faces.  Lear  has  a  white  beard,  Ham- 
let's father  a  grizzled,  and  Benedict  is  to  shave  his 
in  the  course  of  the  play.  Indeed,  on  the  subject  of 
stage  beards  Shakespeare  is  quite  elaborate ;  tells 
us  of  the  many  different  colours  in  use,  and  gives  a 
hint  to  actors  to  always  see  that  their  own  are  prop- 
erly tied  on.  There  is  a  dance  of  reapers  in  rye- 
straw  hats,  and  of  rustics  in  hairy  coats  like  satyrs ; 
a  masque  of  Amazons,  a  masque  of  Russians,  and  a 
classical  masque ;  several  immortal  scenes  over  a 
weaver  in  an  ass's  head,  a  riot  over  the  colour  of  a 


232  INTENTIONS 

coat  which  it  takes  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London  to 
quell,  and  a  scene  between  an  infuriated  husband 
and  his  wife's  milliner  about  the  slashing  of  a 
sleeve. 

As  for  the  metaphors  Shakespeare  draws  from 
dress,  and  the  aphorisms  he  makes  on  it,  his  hits  at 
the  costume  of  his  age,  particularly  at  the  ridicu- 
lous size  of  the  ladies'  bonnets,  and  the  many  de- 
scriptions of  the  '  mundus  muliebris,'  from  the  song 
of  Autolycus  in  the  Winter's  Tale  down  to  the  ac- 
count of  the  Duchess  of  Milan's  gown  in  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,  they  are  far  too  numerous  to  quote ; 
though  it  may  be  worth  while  to  remind  people 
that  the  whole  of  the  Philosophy  of  Clothes  is  to  be 
found  in  Lear's  scene  with  Edgar — a  passage  which 
has  the  advantage  of  brevity  and  style  over  the 
grotesque  wisdom  and  somewhat  mouthing  meta- 
physics of  Sartor  Resartus.  But  I  think  that  from 
what  I  have  already  said  it  is  quite  clear  that 
Shakespeare  was  very  much  interested  in  costume. 
I  do  not  mean  in  that  shallow  sense  by  which  it  has 
been  concluded  from  his  knowledge  of  deeds  and 
daffodils  that  he  was  the  Blackstone  and  Paxton  of 
the  Elizabethan  age ;  but  that  he  saw  that  costume 
could  be  made  at  once  impressive  of  a  certain  effect 
on  the  audience  and  expressive  of  certain  types  of 
character  and  is  one  of  the  essential  factors  of  the 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  233 

means  which  a  true  illusionist  has  at  his  disposal. 
Indeed  to  him  the  deformed  figure  of  Richard  was 
of  as  much  value  as  Juliet's  loveliness;  he  sets  the 
serge  of  the  radical  beside  the  silks  of  the  lord,  and 
sees  the  stage  effects  to  be  got  from  each ;  he  has 
as  much  delight  in  Caliban  as  he  has  in  Ariel,  in 
rags  as  he  has  in  cloth  of  gold,  and  recognizes  the 
artistic  beauty  of  ugliness. 

The  difficulty  Ducis  felt  about  translating  Othello 
in  consequence  of  the  importance  given  to  such  a 
vulgar  thing  as  a  handkerchief,  and  his  attempt  to 
soften  its  grossness  by  making  the  Moor  reiterate 
"  Le  bandeau!  le  bandeau!"  may  be  taken  as  an 
example  of  the  difference  between  '  la  tragedie 
philosophique  '  and  the  drama  of  real  life ;  and 
the  introduction  for  the  first  time  of  the  word 
'  mouchoir  '  at  the  Theatre  Francais  was  an  era  in 
that  romantic-realistic  movement  of  which  Hugo  is 
the  father  and  M.  Zola  the  '  enfant  terrible,'  just 
as  the  classicism  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  century 
was  emphasized  by  Talma's  refusal  to  play  Greek 
heroes  any  longer  in  a  powdered  periwig — one  of 
the  many  instances,  by  the  way,  of  that  desire  for 
archaeological  accuracy  in  dress  which  has  distin- 
guished the  great  actors  of  our  age. 

In  criticising  the  importance  given  to  money  in 
La  Comedie  Humaine,  Theophile  Gautier  says  that 


2  34  INTENTIONS 

Balzac  may  claim  to  have  invented  a  new  hero  in 
fiction,  '  le  heros  metallique.'  Of  Shakespeare  it 
may  be  said  that  he  was  the  first  to  see  the  dramatic 
value  of  doublets,  and  that  a  climax  may  depend  on 
a  crinoline. 

The  burning  of  the  Globe  Theatre — an  event  due, 
by  the  way,  to  the  results  of  the  passion  for  illusion 
that  distinguished  Shakespeare's  stage-management 
— has  unfortunately  robbed  us  of  many  important 
documents ;  but  in  the  inventory,  still  in  existence, 
of  the  costume-wardrobe  of  a  London  theatre  in 
Shakespeare's  time,  there  are  mentioned  particular 
costumes  for  cardinals,  shepherds,  kings,  clowns, 
friars  and  fools;  green  coats  for  Robin  Hood's  men, 
and  a  green  gown  for  Maid  Marian  ;  a  white  and 
gold  doublet  for  Henry  the  Fifth,  and  a  robe  for 
Longshanks ;  besides  surplices,  copes,  damask  gowns, 
gowns  of  cloth  of  gold  and  of  cloth  of  silver,  taffeta 
gowns,  calico  gowns,  velvet  coats,  satin  coats,  frieze 
coats,  jerkins  of  yellow  leather  and  of  black  leather, 
red  suits,  grey  suits,  French  Pierrot  suits,  a  robe 
"  for  to  goo  invisibell,"  which  seems  inexpensive  at 
3/.  10s.,  and  four  incomparable  fardingales — all  of 
which  show  a  desire  to  give  every  character  an 
appropriate  dress.  There  are  also  entries  of  Spanish, 
Moorish  and  Danish  costumes,  of  helmets,  lances, 
painted  shields,   imperial  crowns,  and  papal  tiaras, 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  235 

as  well  as  of  costumes  for  Turkish  Janissaries, 
Roman  Senators,  and  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  of 
Olympus,  which  evidence  a  good  deal  of  archaeolog- 
ical research  on  the  part  of  the  manager  of  the 
theatre.  It  is  true  that  there  is  a  mention  of  a 
bodice  for  Eve,  but  probably  the  '  donnee  '  of  the 
play  was  after  the  Fall. 

Indeed,  anybody  who  cares  to  examine  the  age 
of  Shakespeare  will  see  that  archaeology  was  one  of 
its  special  characteristics.  After  that  revival  of  the 
classical  forms  of  architecture  which  was  one  of  the 
notes  of  the  Renaissance,  and  the  printing  at  Venice 
and  elsewhere  of  the  masterpieces  of  Greek  and  Latin 
literature,  had  come  naturally  an  interest  in  the  orna- 
mentation and  costume  of  the  antique  world.  Nor 
was  it  for  the  learning  that  they  could  acquire,  but 
rather  for  the  loveliness  that  they  might  create,  that 
the  artists  studied  these  things.  The  curious  objects 
that  were  being  constantly  brought  to  light  by  ex- 
cavations were  not  left  to  moulder  in  a  museum,  for 
the  contemplation  of  a  callous  curator,  and  the  '  en- 
nui '  of  a  policeman  bored  by  the  absence  of  crime. 
They  were  used  as  motives  for  the  production  of  a 
new  art,  which  was  to  be  not  beautiful  merely,  but 
also  strange. 

Infessura  tells  us  that  in  1485  some  workmen  dig- 
ging on  the  Appian  Way  came  across  an  old  Roman 


236  INTENTIONS 

sarcophagus  inscribed  with  the  name  "  Julia,  daugh- 
ter of  Claudius."  On  opening  the  coffer  they  found 
within  its  marble  womb  the  body  of  a  beautiful  girl 
of  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  preserved  by  the  em- 
balmer's  skill  from  corruption  and  the  decay  of  time. 
Her  eyes  were  half  open,  her  hair  rippled  round  her 
in  crisp  curling  gold,  and  from  her  lips  and  cheek 
the  bloom  of  maidenhood  had  not  yet  departed. 
Borne  back  to  the  Capitol,  she  became  at  once  the 
centre  of  a  new  cult,  and  from  all  parts  of  the  city 
crowded  pilgrims  to  worship  at  the  wonderful  shrine 
till  the  Pope,  fearing  lest  those  who  had  found  the 
secret  of  beauty  in  a  Pagan  tomb  might  forget  what 
secrets  Judaea's  rough  and  rock-hewn  sepulchre  con- 
tained, had  the  body  conveyed  away  by  night,  and  in 
secret  buried.  Legend  though  it  may  be,  yet  the 
story  is  none  the  less  valuable  as  showing  us  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Renaissance  towards  the  antique  world. 
Archaeology  to  them  was  not  a  mere  science  for  the 
antiquarian;  it  was  a  means  by  which  they  could 
touch  the  dry  dust  of  antiquity  into  the  very  breath 
and  beauty  of  life,  and  fill  with  the  new  wine  of 
romanticism  forms  that  else  had  been  old  and  out- 
worn. From  the  pulpit  of  Niccola  Pisano  down  to 
Mantegna's  "  Triumph  of  Caesar,"  and  the  service 
Cellini  designed  for  King  Francis,  the  influence  of 
this  spirit  can  be  traced  ;  nor  was  it  confined  merely 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  237 

to  the  immobile  arts — the  arts  of  arrested  movement 
— but  its  influence  was  to  be  seen  also  in  the  great 
Graeco-Roman  masques  which  were  the  constant 
amusement  of  the  gay  courts  of  the  time,  and  in 
the  public  pomps  and  processions  with  which  the 
citizens  of  big  commercial  towns  were  wont  to  greet 
the  princes  that  chanced  to  visit  them  ;  pageants,  by 
the  way,  which  were  considered  so  important  that 
large  prints  were  made  of  them  and  published — a 
fact  which  is  a  proof  of  the  general  interest  at  the 
time  in  matters  of  such  kind. 

And  this  use  of  archaeology  in  shows,  so  far  from 
being  a  bit  of  priggish  pedantry,  is  in  every  way  legit- 
imate and  beautiful.  For  the  stage  is  not  merely  the 
meeting  place  of  all  the  arts,  but  it  is  also  the  return 
of  art  to  life.  Sometimes  in  an  archaeological  novel 
the  use  of  strange  and  obsolete  terms  seems  to  hide 
the  reality  beneath  the  learning,  and  I  dare  say  that 
many  of  the  readers  of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  have 
been  much  puzzled  over  the  meaning  of  such  expres- 
sions as  'la  casaque  a  mahoitres,'  '  les  voulgiers,'  '  le 
gallimard  tache  d'encre,'  '  les  craaquiniers,'  and  the 
like ;  but  with  the  stage  how  different  it  is !  The  an- 
cient world  wakes  from  its  sleep,  and  history  moves  as 
a  pageant  before  our  eyes,  without  obliging  us  to  have 
recourse  to  a  dictionary  or  an  encyclopedia  for  the 
perfection  of  our  enjoyment.     Indeed,  there  is  not 


238 


INTENTIONS 


the  slightest  necessity  that  the  public  should  know 
the  authorities  for  the  mounting  of  any  piece.  From 
such  materials,  for  instance,  as  the  disk  of  Theodo- 
sius,  materials  with  which  the  majority  of  people  are 
probably  not  very  familiar,  Mr.  E.  W.  Godwin,  one  of 
the  most  artistic  spirits  of  this  century  in  England, 
created  the  marvellous  loveliness  of  the  first  act  of 
Claudian,  and  showed  us  the  life  of  Byzantium  in 
the  fourth  century,  not  by  a  dreary  lecture  and  a  set 
of  grimy  casts,  not  by  a  novel  which  requires  a  glos- 
sary to  explain  it,  but  by  the  visible  presentation 
before  us  of  all  the  glory  of  that  great  town.  And 
while  the  costumes  were  true  to  the  smallest  points  of 
colour  and  design,  yet  the  details  were  not  assigned 
that  abnormal  importance  which  they  must  neces- 
sarily be  given  in  a  piecemeal  lecture,  but  were  sub- 
ordinated to  the  rules  of  lofty  composition  and  the 
unity  of  artistic  effect.  Mr.  Symonds,  speaking  of 
that  great  picture  of  Mantegna's,  now  in  Hampton 
Court,  says  that  the  artist  has  converted  an  antiqua- 
rian motive  into  a  theme  for  melodies  of  line.  The 
same  could  have  been  said  with  equal  justice  of  Mr. 
Godwin's  scene.  Only  the  foolish  called  it  pedantry, 
only  those  who  would  neither  look  nor  listen  spoke 
of  the  passion  of  the  play  being  killed  by  its  paint. 
It  was  in  reality  a  scene  not  merely  perfect  in  its 
picturesqueness,  but  absolutely  dramatic  also,  get- 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  239 

ting  rid  of  any  necessity  for  tedious  descriptions,  and 
showing  us,  by  the  colour  and  character  of  Claudi- 
an's  dress,  and  the  dress  of  his  attendants,  the  whole 
nature  and  life  of  the  man,  from  what  school  of 
philosophy  he  affected,  down  to  what  horses  he 
backed  on  the  turf. 

And  indeed  archaeology  is  only  really  delightful 
when  transfused  into  some  form  of  art.  I  have  no 
desire  to  underrate  the  services  of  laborious  scholars, 
but  I  feel  that  the  use  Keats  made  of  Lempriere's 
Dictionary  is  of  far  more  value  to  us  than  Professor 
Max  Miiller's  treatment  of  the  same  mythology  as 
a  disease  of  language.  Better  Endymion  than  any 
theory,  however  sound,  or,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
unsound,  of  an  epidemic  amongst  adjectives !  And 
who  does  not  feel  that  the  chief  glory  of  Piranesi's 
book  on  Vases  is  that  it  gave  Keats  the  suggestion 
for  his  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  ?  Art,  and  art  only, 
can  make  archaeology  beautiful ;  and  the  theatric  art 
can  use  it  most  directly  and  most  vividly,  for  it  can 
combine  in  one  exquisite  presentation  the  illusion  of 
actual  life  with  the  wonder  of  the  unreal  world.  But 
the  sixteenth  century  was  not  merely  the  age  of 
Vitruvius  ;  it  was  the  age  of  Vecellio  also.  Every 
nation  seems  suddenly  to  have  become  interested  in 
the  dress  of  its  neighbours.  Europe  began  to  inves- 
tigate its  own   clothes,  and  the  amount  of  books 


240  INTENTIONS 

published  on  national  costumes  is  quite  extraordi- 
nary. At  the  beginning  of  the  century  the  Nurem- 
berg Chronicle,  with  its  two  thousand  illustrations, 
reached  its  fifth  edition,  and  before  the  century  was 
over  seventeen  editions  were  published  of  Munster's 
Cosmography.  Besides  these  two  books  there  were 
also  the  works  of  Michael  Colyns,  of  Hans  Weigel, 
of  Amman,  and  of  Vecellio  himself,  all  of  them  well 
illustrated,  some  of  the  drawings  in  Vecellio  being 
probably  from  the  hand  of  Titian. 

Nor  was  it  merely  from  books  and  treatises  that 
they  acquired  their  knowledge.  The  development 
of  the  habit  of  foreign  travel,  the  increased  com- 
mercial intercourse  between  countries,  and  the  fre- 
quency of  diplomatic  missions,  gave  every  nation 
many  opportunities  of  studying  the  various  forms 
of  contemporary  dress.  After  the  departure  from 
England,  for  instance,  of  the  ambassadors  from  the 
Czar  the  Sultan  and  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  Henry 
the  Eighth  and  his  friends  gave  several  masques  in 
the  strange  attire  of  their  visitors.  Later  on  Lon- 
don saw,  perhaps  too  often,  the  sombre  splendour 
of  the  Spanish  Court,  and  to  Elizabeth  came  envoys 
from  all  lands,  whose  dress,  Shakespeare  tells  us, 
had  an  important  influence  on  English  costume. 

And  the  interest  was  not  confined  merely  to 
classical   dress,   or  the    dress   of   foreign    nations ; 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  2\\ 

there  was  also  a  good  deal  of  research,  amongst 
theatrical  people  especially,  into  the  ancient  cos- 
tume of  England  itself :  and  when  Shakespeare, 
in  the  prologue  to  one  of  his  plays,  expresses  his 
regret  at  being  unable  to  produce  helmets  of  the 
period,  he  is  speaking  as  an  Elizabethan  manager 
and  not  merely  as  an  Elizabethan  poet.  At  Cam- 
bridge, for  instance,  during  his  day,  a  play  of 
Richard  the  Third  was  performed,  in  which  the 
actors  were  attired  in  real  dresses  of  the  time,  pro- 
cured from  the  great  collection  of  historical  cos- 
tume in  the  Tower,  which  was  always  open  to  the 
inspection  of  managers,  and  sometimes  placed  at 
their  disposal.  And  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
this  performance  must  have  been  far  more  artistic, 
as  regards  costume,  than  Garrick's  mounting  of 
Shakespeare's  own  play  on  the  subject,  in  which  he 
himself  appeared  in  a  nondescript  fancy  dress,  and 
everybody  else  in  the  costume  of  the  time  of 
George  the  Third,  Richmond  especially  being  much 
admired  in  the  uniform  of  a  young  guardsman. 

For  what  is  the  use  to  the  stage  of  that  archaeology 
which  has  so  strangely  terrified  the  critics,  but  that 
it,  and  it  alone,  can  give  us  the  architecture  and 
apparel  suitable  to  the  time  in  which  the  action  of 
the  play  passes  ?  It  enables  us  to  see  a  Greek  dressed 
like  a  Greek,  and  an  Italian  like  an  Italian  ;  to  enjoy 


242  INTENTIONS 

the  arcades  of  Venice  and  the  balconies  of  Verona ; 
and,  if  the  play  deals  with  any  of  the  great  eras  in 
our  country's  history,  to  contemplate  the  age  in  its 
proper  attire,  and  the  king  in  his  habit  as  he  lived. 
And  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what  Lord  Lytton 
would  have  said  some  time  ago,  at  the  Princess's 
Theatre,  had  the  curtain  risen  on  his  father's  Brutus 
reclining  in  a  Queen  Anne  chair,  attired  in  a  flowing 
wig  and  a  flowered  dressing-gown,  a  costume  which 
in  the  last  century  was  considered  peculiarly  appro- 
priate to  an  antique  Roman!  For  in  those  halcyon 
days  of  the  drama  no  archaeology  troubled  the  stage, 
or  distressed  thecritics,  and ourinartistic  grandfathers 
sat  peaceably  in  a  stifling  atmosphere  of  anachro- 
nisms, and  beheld  with  the  calm  complacency  of  the 
age  of  prose  an  Iachimo  in  powder  and  patches,  a 
Lear  in  lace  ruffles,  and  a  Lady  Macbeth  in  a  large 
crinoline.  I  can  understand  archaeology  being  at- 
tacked on  the  ground  of  its  excessive  realism,  but 
to  attack  it  as  pedantic  seems  to  be  very  much  be- 
side the  mark.  However,  to  attack  it  for  any  reason 
is  foolish  ;  one  might  just  as  well  speak  disrespect- 
fully of  the  equator.  For  archaeology,  being  a  sci- 
ence, is  neither  good  nor  bad,  but  a  fact  simply. 
Its  value  depends  entirely  on  how  it  is  used,  and 
only  an  artist  can  use  it.  We  look  to  the  archaeol- 
ogist for  the  materials,  to  the  artist  for  the  method. 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  243 

In  designing  the  scenery  and  costumes  for  any  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  the  first  thing  the  artist  has  to 
settle  is  the  best  date  for  the  drama.  This  should  be 
determined  by  the  general  spirit  of  the  play,  more 
than  by  any  actual  historical  references  which  may 
occur  in  it.  Most  Hamlets  I  have  seen  were  placed 
far  too  early.  Hamlet  is  essentially  a  scholar  of  the 
Revival  of  Learning;  and  if  the  allusion  to  the  re- 
cent invasion  of  England  by  the  Danes  puts  it  back 
to  the  ninth  century,  the  use  of  foils  brings  it  down 
much  later.  Once,  however,  that  the  date  has  been 
fixed,  then  the  archaeologist  is  to  supply  us  with  the 
facts  which  the  artist  is  to  convert  into  effects. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  anachronisms  in  the 
plays  themselves  show  us  that  Shakespeare  was  in- 
different to  historical  accuracy,  and  a  great  deal  of 
capital  has  been  made  out  of  Hector's  indiscreet 
quotation  from  Aristotle.  Upon  the  other  hand,  the 
anachronisms  are  really  few  in  number,  and  not  very 
important,  and,  had  Shakespeare's  attention  been 
drawn  to  them  by  a  brother  artist,  he  would  prob- 
ably have  corrected  them.  For,  though  they  can 
hardly  be  called  blemishes,  they  are  certainly  not  the 
great  beauties  of  his  work ;  or,  at  least,  if  they  are, 
their  anachronistic  charm  cannot  be  emphasized  un- 
less the  play  is  accurately  mounted  according  to  its 
proper  date.      In  looking  at  Shakespeare's  plays  as 


244  INTENTIONS 

a  whole,  however,  what  is  really  remarkable  is  their 
extraordinary  fidelity  as  regards  his  personages  and 
his  plots.  Many  of  his  '  dramatis  personam  '  are 
people  who  had  actually  existed,  and  some  of  them 
might  have  been  seen  in  real  life  by  a  portion  of  his 
audience.  Indeed  the  most  violent  attack  that  was 
made  on  Shakespeare  in  his  time  was  for  his  sup- 
posed caricature  of  Lord  Cobham.  As  for  his  plots, 
Shakespeare  constantly  draws  them  either  from  au- 
thentic history,  or  from  the  old  ballads  and  tradi- 
tions which  served  as  history  to  the  Elizabethan 
public,  and  which  even  now  no  scientific  historian 
would  dismiss  as  absolutely  untrue.  And  not  merely 
did  he  select  fact  instead  of  fancy  as  the  basis  of 
much  of  his  imaginative  work,  but  he  always  gives 
to  each  play  the  general  character,  the  social  atmo- 
sphere in  a  word,  of  the  age  in  question.  Stupidity 
he  recognizes  as  being  one  of  the  permanent  charac- 
teristics of  all  European  civilizations;  so  he  sees  no 
difference  between  a  London  mob  of  his  own  day 
and  a  Roman  mob  of  Pagan  days,  between  a  silly 
watchman  in  Messina  and  a  silly  Justice  of  the  Peace 
in  Windsor.  But  when  he  deals  with  higher  charac- 
ters, with  those  exceptions  of  each  age  which  are  so 
fine  that  they  become  its  types,  he  gives  them  abso- 
lutely the  stamp  and  seal  of  their  time.  Virgilia  is 
one   of  those   Roman   wives   on   whose    tomb  was 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  245 

written  "  Domi  mansit,  lanam  fecit,"  as  surely  as 
Juliet  is  the  romantic  girl  of  the  Renaissance.  He 
is  even  true  to  the  characteristics  of  race.  Hamlet 
has  all  the  imagination  and  irresolution  of  the 
Northern  nations,  and  the  Princess  Katharine  is  as 
entirely  French  as  the  heroine  of  Divorgons.  Harry 
the  Fifth  is  a  pure  Englishman,  and  Othello  a  true 
Moor. 

Again  when  Shakespeare  treats  of  the  history  of 
England  from  the  fourteenth  to  the  sixteenth  cen- 
turies, it  is  wonderful  how  careful  he  is  to  have  his 
facts  perfectly  right — indeed  he  follows  Holinshed 
with  curious  fidelity.  The  incessant  wars  between 
France  and  England  are  described  with  extraor- 
dinary accuracy  down  to  the  names  of  the  be- 
sieged towns,  the  ports  of  landing  and  embarkation, 
the  sites  and  dates  of  the  battles,  the  titles  of  the 
commanders  on  each  side,  and  the  lists  of  the  killed 
and  wounded.  And  as  regards  the  Civil  Wars  of 
the  Roses  we  have  many  elaborate  genealogies  of 
the  seven  sons  of  Edward  the  Third ;  the  claims  of 
the  rival  Houses  of  York  and  Lancaster  to  the 
throne  are  discussed  at  length ;  and  if  the  English 
aristocracy  will  not  read  Shakespeare  as  a  poet, 
they  should  certainly  read  him  as  a  sort  of  early 
Peerage.  There  is  hardly  a  single  title  in  the 
Upper  House,  with  the  exception  of  course  of  the 


246  INTENTIONS 

uninteresting  titles  assumed  by  the  law  lords,  which 
does  not  appear  in  Shakespeare  along  with  many- 
details  of  family  history,  creditable  and  discreditable. 
Indeed  if  it  be  really  necessary  that  the  School 
Board  children  should  know  all  about  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses,  they  could  learn  their  lessons  just  as 
well  out  of  Shakespeare  as  out  of  shilling  primers, 
and  learn  them,  I  need  not  say,  far  more  pleasur- 
ably.  Even  in  Shakespeare's  own  day  this  use  of 
his  plays  was  recognized.  "  The  historical  plays 
teach  history  to  those  who  cannot  read  it  in  the 
chronicles,"  says  Heywood  in  a  tract  about  the 
stage,  and  yet  I  am  sure  that  sixteenth-century 
chronicles  were  much  more  delightful  reading  than 
nineteenth-century  primers  are. 

Of  course  the  aesthetic  value  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  does  not,  in  the  slightest  degree,  depend  on 
their  facts,  but  on  their  Truth,  and  Truth  is  inde- 
pendent of  facts  always,  inventing  or  selecting  them 
at  pleasure.  But  still  Shakespeare's  use  of  facts  is 
a  most  interesting  part  of  his  method  of  work,  and 
shows  us  his  attitude  towards  the  stage,  and  his  re- 
lations to  the  great  art  of  illusion.  Indeed  he 
would  have  been  very  much  surprised  at  anyone 
classing  his  plays  with  "  fairy  tales,"  as  Lord 
Lytton  does  ;  for  one  of  his  aims  was  to  create  for 
England  a  national  historical  drama,  which  should 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  247 

deal  with  incidents  with  which  the  public  was  well 
acquainted,  and  with  heroes  that  lived  in  the 
memory  of  a  people.  Patriotism,  I  need  hardly 
say,  is  not  a  necessary  quality  of  art ;  but  it  means, 
for  the  artist  the  substitution  of  a  universal  for  an 
individual  feeling,  and  for  the  public  the  presenta- 
tion of  a  work  of  art  in  a  most  attractive  and  popu- 
lar form.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  Shakespeare's 
first  and  last  successes  were  both  historical  plays. 

It  may  be  asked  what  has  this  to  do  with  Shake- 
speare's attitude  towards  costume.  I  answer  that  a 
dramatist  who  laid  such  stress  on  historical  accuracy 
of  fact  would  have  welcomed  historical  accuracy  of 
costume  as  a  most  important  adjunct  to  his  illusion- 
ist method.  And  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying 
that  he  did  so.  The  reference  to  helmets  of  the 
period  in  the  prologue  to  Henry  the  Fifth  may  be 
considered  fanciful,  though  Shakespeare  must  have 

often  seen 

The  very  casque 

That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt, 

where  it  still  hangs  in  the  dusky  gloom  of  West- 
minster Abbey,  along  with  the  saddle  of  that  "  imp 
of  fame,"  and  the  dinted  shield  with  its  torn  blue 
velvet  lining  and  its  tarnished  lilies  of  gold  ;  but  the 
use  of  military  tabards  in  Henry  the  Sixth  is  a  bit 
of  pure  archaeology,  as  they  were  not  worn  in  the 


248  INTENTIONS 

sixteenth  century ;  and  the  King's  own  tabard,  I 
may  mention,  was  still  suspended  over  his  tomb  in 
St.  George's  Chapel,  Windsor,  in  Shakespeare's 
day.  For,  up  to  the  time  of  the  unfortunate 
triumph  of  the  Philistines  in  1645,  the  chapels  and 
cathedrals  of  England  were  the  great  national 
museums  of  archaeology,  and  in  them  was  kept  the 
armour  and  attire  of  the  heroes  of  English  history. 
A  good  deal  was  of  course  preserved  in  the  Tower, 
and  even  in  Elizabeth's  day  tourists  were  brought 
there  to  see  such  curious  relics  of  the  past  as 
Charles  Brandon's  huge  lance,  which  is  still,  I  be- 
lieve, the  admiration  of  our  country  visitors;  but 
the  cathedrals  and  churches  were,  as  a  rule,  selected 
as  the  most  suitable  shrines  for  the  reception  of  the 
historic  antiquities.  Canterbury  can  still  show  us 
the  helm  of  the  Black  Prince ;  Westminster  the 
robes  of  our  kings,  and  in  old  St.  Paul's  the  very 
banner  that  had  waved  on  Bosworth  field  was  hung 
up  by  Richmond  himself. 

In  fact,  everywhere  that  Shakespeare  turned  in 
London,  he  saw  the  apparel  and  appurtenances  of 
past  ages,  and  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  he 
made  use  of  his  opportunities.  The  employment 
of  lance  and  shield,  for  instance,  in  actual  warfare, 
which  is  so  frequent  in  his  plays,  is  drawn  from 
archaeology,  and   not  from   the   military  accoutre- 


THE  TRUTH   OF  MASKS  249 

ments  of  his  day ;  and  his  general  use  of  armour  in 
battle  was  not  a  characteristic  of  his  age,  a  time 
when  it  was  rapidly  disappearing  before  firearms. 
Again,  the  crest  on  Warwick's  helmet,  of  which 
such  a  point  is  made  in  Henry  the  Sixth,  is  ab- 
solutely correct  in  a  fifteenth-century  play  when 
crests  were  generally  worn,  but  would  not  have 
been  so  in  a  play  of  Shakespeare's  own  time,  when 
feathers  and  plumes  had  taken  their  place  —  a 
fashion  which,  as  he  tells  us  in  Henry  the  Eighth, 
was  borrowed  from  France.  For  the  historical 
plays,  then,  we  may  be  sure  that  archaeology  was 
employed,  and  as  for  the  others  I  feel  certain  it  was 
the  case  also.  The  appearance  of  Jupiter  on  his 
eagle,  thunderbolt  in  hand,  of  Juno  with  her  pea- 
cocks, and  of  Iris  with  her  many-coloured  bow ; 
the  Amazon  masque  and  the  masque  of  the  Five 
Worthies,  may  all  be  regarded  as  archaeological ; 
and  the  vision  which  Posthumus  sees  in  prison  of 
Sicilius  Leonatus — "  an  old  man,  attired  like  a 
warrior,  leading  an  ancient  matron  " — is  clearly  so. 
Of  the  "  Athenian  dress "  by  which  Lysander  is 
distinguished  from  Oberon  I  have  already  spoken; 
but  one  of  the  most  marked  instances  is  in  the  case 
of  the  dress  of  Coriolanus,  for  which  Shakespeare 
goes  directly  to  Plutarch.  That  historian,  in  his 
Life  of  the  great  Roman,  tells  us  of  the  oak-wreath 


250  INTENTIONS 

with  which  Caius  Marcius  was  crowned,  and  of  the 
curious  kind  of  dress  in  which,  according  to  ancient 
fashion,  he  had  to  canvass  his  electors ;  and  on  both 
of  these  points  he  enters  into  long  disquisitions, 
investigating  the  origin  and  meaning  of  the  old 
customs.  Shakespeare,  in  the  spirit  of  the  true 
artist,  accepts  the  facts  of  the  antiquarian  and  con- 
verts them  into  dramatic  and  picturesque  effects ; 
indeed  the  gown  of  humility,  the  "  woolvish  gown," 
as  Shakespeare  calls  it,  is  the  central  note  of  the 
play.  There  are  other  cases  I  might  quote,  but 
this  one  is  quite  sufficient  for  my  purpose;  and  it  is 
evident  from  it  at  any  rate  that,  in  mounting  a  play 
in  the  accurate  costume  of  the  time,  according  to 
the  best  authorities,  we  are  carrying  out  Shake- 
speare's own  wishes  and  method. 

Even  if  it  were  not  so,  there  is  no  more  reason 
that  we  should  continue  any  imperfections  which 
may  be  supposed  to  have  characterized  Shake- 
speare's stage-mounting  than  that  we  should  have 
Juliet  played  by  a  young  man,  or  give  up  the  ad- 
vantage of  changeable  scenery.  A  great  work  of 
dramatic  art  should  not  merely  be  made  expressive 
of  modern  passion  by  means  of  the  actor,  but 
should  be  presented  to  us  in  the  form  most  suitable 
to  the  modern  spirit.  Racine  produced  his  Roman 
plays  in  Louis-Ouatorze  dress  on  a  stage  crowded 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  25  I 

with  spectators  ;  but  we  require  different  conditions 
for  the  enjoyment  of  his  art.  Perfect  accuracy  of 
detail,  for  the  sake  of  perfect  illusion,  is  necessary 
for  us.  What  we  have  to  see  is  that  the  details  are 
not  allowed  to  usurp  the  principal  place.  They 
must  be  subordinate  always  to  the  general  motive 
of  the  play.  But  subordination  in  art  does  not 
mean  disregard  of  truth ;  it  means  conversion  of 
fact  into  effect,  and  the  assigning  to  each  detail  its 
proper  relative  value. 

Les  petits  details  d'histoire  et  de  vie  domestique  (says 
Hugo)  doivent  etre  scrupuleusement  etudies  et  reproduits  par 
le  poete,  mais  uniquement  comme  des  moyens  d'accroitre  la 
realite  de  l'ensemble,  et  de  faire  penetrer  jusque  dans  les 
coins  les  plus  obscurs  de  l'oeuvre  cette  vie  generale  et 
puissante  au  milieu  de  laquelle  les  personnages  sont  plus 
vrais,  et  les  catastrophes,  par  consequent,  plus  poignantes. 
Tout  doit  etre  subordonne  a  ce  but.  L'Homme  sur  le 
premier  plan,  le  reste  au  fond. 

The  passage  is  interesting  as  coming  from  the  first 
great  French  dramatist  who  employed  archaeology 
on  the  stage,  and  whose  plays,  though  absolutely 
correct  in  detail,  are  known  to  all  for  their  passion, 
not  for  their  pedantry — for  their  life,  not  for  their 
learning.  It  is  true  that  he  has  made  certain  con- 
cessions in  the  case  of  the  employment  of  curious  or 
strange  expressions.  Ruy  Bias  talks  of  M.  de  Priego 
as  "  sujet  du  roi  "  instead  of  "noble  du  roi,"  and  An- 


252  INTENTIONS 

gelo  Malipieri  speaks  of  "  la  croix  rouge  "  instead  of 
"la  croix  de  gueules."  But  they  are  concessions 
made  to  the  public,  or  rather  to  a  section  of  it. 
"J'en  offre  ici  toute  mes  excuses  aux  spectateurs 
intelligents,"  he  says  in  a  note  to  one  of  the  plays ; 
"  esperons  qu'un  jour  un  seigneur  venitien  pourra 
dire  tout  bonnement  sans  peril  son  blason  sur 
le  theatre.  C'est  un  progres  qui  viendra."  And, 
though  the  description  of  the  crest  is  not  couched  in 
accurate  language,  still  the  crest  itself  was  accurately 
right.  It  may,  of  course,  be  said  that  the  public  do 
not  notice  these  things ;  upon  the  other  hand,  it 
should  be  remembered  that  Art  has  no  other  aim 
but  her  own  perfection,  and  proceeds  simply  by  her 
own  laws,  and  that  the  play  which  Hamlet  describes 
as  being  caviare  to  the  general  is  a  play  he  highly 
praises.  Besides,  in  England,  at  any  rate,  the  public 
have  undergone  a  transformation  ;  there  is  far  more 
appreciation  of  beauty  nowthan  there  was  a  few  years 
ago ;  and  though  they  may  not  be  familiar  with  the 
authorities  and  archaeological  data  for  what  is  shown 
to  them,  still  they  enjoy  whatever  loveliness  they 
look  at.  And  this  is  the  important  thing.  Better 
to  take  pleasure  in  a  rose  than  to  put  its  root  under 
a  microscope.  Archaeological  accuracy  is  merely 
a  condition  of  illusionist  stage  effect ;  it  is  not  its 
quality.       And    Lord   Lytton's    proposal   that   the 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  253 

dresses  should  merely  be  beautiful  without  being 
accurate  is  founded  on  a  misapprehension  of  the  na- 
ture of  costume,  and  of  its  value  on  the  stage.  This 
value  is  twofold,  picturesque  and  dramatic  ;  the  for- 
mer depends  on  the  colour  of  the  dress,  the  latter  on 
its  design  and  character.  But  so  interwoven  are  the 
two  that,  whenever  in  our  own  day  historical  accu- 
racy has  been  disregarded,  and  the  various  dresses 
in  a  play  taken  from  different  ages,  the  result  has 
been  that  the  stage  has  been  turned  into  that  chaos 
of  costume,  that  caricature  of  the  centuries,  the 
Fancy  Dress  Ball,  to  the  entire  ruin  of  all  dramatic 
and  picturesque  effect.  For  the  dresses  of  one  age 
do  not  artistically  harmonize  with  the  dresses  of  an- 
other ;  and,  as  far  as  dramatic  value  goes,  to  confuse 
the  costumes  is  to  confuse  the  play.  Costume  is  a 
growth,  an  evolution,  and  a  most  important,  perhaps 
the  most  important,  sign  of  the  manners,  customs, 
and  mode  of  life  of  each  century.  The  Puritan  dis- 
like of  colour,  adornment,  and  grace  in  apparel  was 
part  of  the  great  revolt  of  the  middle  classes  against 
Beauty  in  the  seventeenth  century.  A  historian 
who  disregarded  it  would  give  us  a  most  inaccurate 
picture  of  the  time,  and  a  dramatist  who  did  not  avail 
himself  of  it  would  miss  a  most  vital  element  in  pro- 
ducing an  illusionist  effect.  The  effeminacy  of  dress 
that  characterized  the  reign  of  Richard  the  Second 


254 


INTENTIONS 


was  a  constant  theme  of  contemporary  authors. 
Shakespeare,  writing  two  hundred  years  after,  makes 
the  King's  fondness  for  gay  apparel  and  foreign 
fashions  a  point  in  the  play,  from  John  of  Gaunt's 
reproaches  down  to  Richard's  own  speech  in  the 
third  act  on  his  deposition  from  the  throne.  And 
that  Shakespeare  examined  Richard's  tomb  in  West- 
minster Abbey  seems  to  me  certain  from  York's 
speech :  — 

See,  see,  King  Richard  doth  himself  appear, 
As  doth  the  blushing  discontented  sun 
From  out  the  fiery  portal  of  the  east, 
When  he  perceives  the  envious  clouds  are  bent 
To  dim  his  glory. 

For  we  can  still  discern  on  the  King's  robe  his 
favourite  badge — the  sun  issuing  from  a  cloud.  In 
fact,  in  every  age  the  social  conditions  are  so  ex- 
emplified in  costume,  that  to  produce  a  sixteenth- 
century  play  in  fourteenth-century  attire,  or  vice 
versa,  would  make  the  performance  seem  unreal 
because  untrue.  And,  valuable  as  beauty  of  effect 
on  the  stage  is,  the  highest  beauty  is  not  merely 
comparable  with  absolute  accuracy  of  detail,  but 
really  dependent  on  it.  To  invent  an  entirely  new 
costume  is  almost  impossible  except  in  burlesque  or 
extravaganza,  and  as  for  combining  the  dress  of 
different  centuries  into  one,  the  experiment  would 


THE  TRUTH   OF  MASKS  255 

be  dangerous,  and  Shakespeare's  opinion  of  the 
artistic  value  of  such  a  medley  may  be  gathered 
from  his  incessant  satire  of  the  Elizabethan  dandies 
for  imagining  that  they  were  well  dressed  because 
they  got  their  doublets  in  Italy,  their  hats  in  Ger- 
many, and  their  hose  in  France.  And  it  should  be 
noted  that  the  most  lovely  scenes  that  have  been 
produced  on  our  stage  have  been  those  that  have 
been  characterized  by  perfect  accuracy,  such  as  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bancroft's  eighteenth  century  revivals  at 
the  Haymarket,  Mr.  Irving's  superb  production  of 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  and  Mr.  Barrett's  Clau- 
dian.  Besides,  and  this  is  perhaps  the  most  com- 
plete answer  to  Lord  Lytton's  theory,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  neither  in  costume  nor  in  dialogue 
is  beauty  the  dramatist's  primary  aid  at  all.  The 
true  dramatist  aims  first  at  what  is  characteristic, 
and  no  more  desires  that  all  his  personages  should 
be  beautifully  attired  than  he  desires  that  they 
should  all  have  beautiful  natures  or  speak  beautiful 
English.  The  true  dramatist,  in  fact,  shows  us  life 
under  the  conditions  of  art,  not  art  in  the  form  of  life. 
The  Greek  dress  was  the  loveliest  dress  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  and  the  English  dress  of  the  last 
century  one  of  the  most  monstrous;  yet  we  cannot 
costume  a  play  by  Sheridan  as  we  would  costume 
a  play  by  Sophokles.       For,  as  Polonius  says  in  his 


256  INTENTIONS 

excellent  lecture — a  lecture  to  which  I  am  glad  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  expressing  my  obligations — 
one  of  the  first  qualities  of  apparel  is  its  expressive- 
ness. And  the  affected  style  of  dress  in  the  last 
century  was  the  natural  characteristic  of  a  society  of 
affected  manners  and  affected  conversation — a  char- 
acteristic which  the  realistic  dramatist  will  highly 
value  down  to  the  smallest  detail  of  accuracy,  and  the 
materials  for  which  he  can  only  get  from  archaeology. 
But  it  is  not  enough  that  a  dress  should  be 
accurate;  it  must  be  also  appropriate  to  the  stature 
and  appearance  of  the  actor,  and  to  his  supposed 
condition,  as  well  as  to  his  necessary  action  in  the 
play.  In  Mr.  Hare's  production  of  As  You  Like  It 
at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  for  instance,  the  whole 
point  of  Orlando's  complaint  that  he  is  brought  up 
like  a  peasant,  and  not  like  a  gentleman,  was 
spoiled  by  the  gorgeousness  of  his  dress,  and  the 
splendid  apparel  worn  by  the  banished  Duke  and 
his  friends  was  quite  out  of  place.  Mr.  Lewis 
Wingfield's  explanation  that  the  sumptuary  laws  of 
the  period  necessitated  their  doing  so,  is,  I  am  afraid, 
hardly  sufficient.  Outlaws,  lurking  in  a  forest  and 
living  by  the  chase,  are  not  very  likely  to  care 
much  about  ordinances  of  dress.  They  were  prob- 
ably attired  like  Robin  Hood's  men,  to  whom,  in- 
deed, they  are  compared  in  the  course  of  the  play. 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  257 

And  that  their  dress  was  not  that  of  wealthy  noble- 
men may  be  seen  by  Orlando's  words  when  he  breaks 
in  upon  them.  He  mistakes  them  for  robbers,  and 
is  amazed  to  find  that  they  answer  him  in  courteous 
and  gentle  terms.  Lady  Archibald  Campbell's  pro- 
duction, under  Mr.  E.  W.  Godwin's  direction,  of 
the  same  play  in  Coombe  Wood  was,  as  regards 
mounting,  far  more  artistic.  At  least,  it  seemed  so 
to  me.  The  Duke  and  his  companions  were  dressed 
in  serge  tunics,  leathern  jerkins,  high  boots  and 
gauntlets,  and  wore  bycocket  hats  and  hoods.  And 
as  they  were  playing  in  a  real  forest,  they  found,  I  am 
sure,  their  dresses  extremely  convenient.  To  every 
character  in  the  play  was  given  a  perfectly  appro- 
priate attire,  and  the  brown  and  green  of  their  cos- 
tumes harmonized  exquisitely  with  the  ferns  through 
which  they  wandered,  the  trees  beneath  which  they 
lay,  and  the  lovely  English  landscape  that  sur- 
rounded the  Pastoral  Players.  The  perfect  natural- 
ness of  the  scene  was  due  to  the  absolute  accuracy 
and  appropriateness  of  everything  that  was  worn. 
Nor  could  archaeology  have  been  put  to  a  severer 
test,  or  come  out  of  it  more  triumphantly.  The 
whole  production  showed  once  for  all  that,  unless  a 
dress  is  archaelogically  correct,  and  artistically  ap- 
propriate, it  always  looks  unreal,  unnatural,  and 
theatrical  in  the  sense  of  artificial. 


258  INTENTIONS 

Nor,  again,  is  it  enough  that  there  should  be  ac- 
curate and  appropriate  costumes  of  beautiful  col- 
ours; there  must  be  also  beauty  of  colour  on  the 
stage  as  a  whole,  and  as  long  as  the  background 
is  painted  by  one  artist,  and  the  foreground  figures 
independently  designed  by  another,  there  is  the 
danger  of  a  want  of  harmony  in  the  scene  as  a 
picture.  For  each  scene  the  colour-scheme  should 
be  settled  as  absolutely  as  for  the  decoration  of  a 
room,  and  the  textures  which  it  is  proposed  to  use 
should  be  mixed  and  re-mixed  in  every  possible 
combination,  and  what  is  discordant  removed. 
Then,  as  regards  the  particular  kinds  of  colours, 
the  stage  is  often  made  too  glaring,  partly  through 
the  excessive  use  of  hot,  violent  reds,  and  partly 
through  the  costumes  looking  too  new.  Shabbi- 
ness,  which  in  modern  life  is  merely  the  tendency 
of  the  lower  orders  towards  tone,  is  not  without  its 
artistic  value,  and  modern  colours  are  often  much  im- 
proved by  being  a  little  faded.  Blue  also  is  too  fre- 
quently used :  it  is  not  merely  a  dangerous  colour  to 
wear  by  gaslight,  but  it  is  really  difficult  in  England 
to  get  a  thoroughly  good  blue.  The  fine  Chinese 
blue,  which  we  all  so  much  admire,  takes  two  years 
to  dye,  and  the  English  public  will  not  wait  so  long 
for  a  colour.  Peacock  blue,  of  course,  has  been 
employed  on   the   stage,   notably   at  the   Lyceum, 


THE  TRUTH   OF  MASKS  259 

with  great  advantage ;  but  all  attempts  at  a  good 
light  blue,  or  good  dark  blue,  which  I  have  seen 
have  been  failures.  The  value  of  black  is  hardly 
appreciated ;  it  was  used  effectively  by  Mr.  Irving  in 
Hamlet  as  the  central  note  of  a  composition,  but  as 
a  tone-giving  neutral  its  importance  is  not  recog- 
nized. And  this  is  curious,  considering  the  general 
colour  of  the  dress  of  a  century  in  which,  as  Baude- 
laire says,  "  Nous  celebrons  tous  quelque  enterre- 
ment."  The  archaeologist  of  the  future  will  prob- 
ably point  to  this  age  as  a  time  when  the  beauty  of 
black  was  understood ;  but  I  hardly  think  that,  as 
regards  stage-mounting  or  house  decoration,  it  really 
is.  Its  decorative  value  is,  of  course,  the  same  as 
that  of  white  or  gold ;  it  can  separate  and  har- 
monise colours.  In  modern  plays  the  black  frock 
coat  of  the  hero  becomes  important  in  itself,  and 
should  be  given  a  suitable  background.  But  it 
rarely  is.  Indeed  the  only  good  background  for  a 
play  in  modern  dress  which  I  have  ever  seen  was 
the  dark  grey  and  cream-white  scene  of  the  first 
act  of  the  Princesse  Georges  in  Mrs.  Langtry's  pro- 
duction. As  a  rule,  the  hero  is  smothered  in  '  bric- 
a-brac  '  and  palm  trees,  lost  in  the  gilded  abyss  of 
Louis  Quatorze  furniture,  or  reduced  to  a  mere 
midge  in  the  midst  of  marqueterie;  whereas  the 
background  should  always  be  kept  as  a  background, 


260  INTENTIONS 

and  colour  subordinated  to  effect.  This,  of  course, 
can  only  be  done  when  there  is  one  single  mind  di- 
recting the  whole  production.  The  facts  of  art  are 
diverse,  but  the  essence  of  artistic  effect  is  unity. 
Monarchy,  Anarchy,  and  Republicanism  may  con- 
tend for  the  government  of  nations ;  but  a  theatre 
should  be  in  the  power  of  a  cultured  despot.  There 
may  be  division  of  labour,  but  there  must  be  no 
division  of  mind.  Whoever  understands  the  costume 
of  an  age  understands  of  necessity  its  architecture 
and  its  surroundings  also,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  from 
the  chairs  of  a  century  whether  it  was  a  century  of 
crinolines  or  not.  In  fact,  in  art  there  is  no  special- 
ism, and  a  really  artistic  production  should  bear  the 
impress  of  one  master,  and  one  master  only,  who 
not  merely  should  design  and  arrange  everything, 
but  should  have  complete  control  over  the  way  in 
which  each  dress  is  to  be  worn. 

Mademoiselle  Mars,  in  the  first  production  of 
Hernani,  absolutely  refused  to  call  her  lover  "  Mon 
Lion!"  unless  she  was  allowed  to  wear  a  little 
fashionable  toque  then  much  in  vogue  on  the 
Boulevards ;  and  many  young  ladies  on  our  own 
stage  insist  to  the  present  day  on  wearing  stiff 
starched  petticoats  under  Greek  dresses,  to  the  en- 
tire ruin  of  all  delicacy  of  line  and  fold ;  but  these 
wicked  things  should  not  be  allowed.      And  there 


THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  26l 

should  be  far  more  dress  rehearsals  than  there  are 
now.  Actors  such  as  Mr.  Forbes-Robertson,  Mr. 
Conway,  Mr.  George  Alexander,  and  others,  not  to 
mention  older  artists,  can  move  with  ease  and 
elegance  in  the  attire  of  any  century  ;  but  there  are 
not  a  few  who  seem  dreadfully  embarrassed  about 
their  hands  if  they  have  no  side  pockets,  and  who 
always  wear  their  dresses  as  if  they  were  costumes. 
Costumes,  of  course,  they  are  to  the  designer;  but 
dresses  they  should  be  to  those  that  wear  them. 
And  it  is  time  that  a  stop  should  be  put  to  the 
idea,  very  prevalent  on  the  stage,  that  the  Greeks 
and  Romans  always  went  about  bareheaded  in  the 
open  air — a  mistake  the  Elizabethan  managers  did 
not  fall  into,  for  they  gave  hoods  as  well  as  gowns 
to  their  Roman  senators. 

More  dress  rehearsals  would  also  be  of  value  in 
explaining  to  the  actors  that  there  is  a  form  of 
gesture  and  movement  that  is  not  merely  appropri- 
ate to  each  style  of  dress,  but  really  conditioned 
by  it.  The  extravagant  use  of  the  arms  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  for  instance,  was  the  necessary 
result  of  the  large  hoop,  and  the  solemn  dignity  of 
Burleigh  owed  as  much  to  his  ruff  as  to  his 
reason.  Besides,  until  an  actor  is  at  home  in  his 
dress,  he  is  not  at  home  in  his  part. 

Of  the  value  of  beautiful  costume  in  creating  an 


262  INTENTIONS 

artistic  temperament  in  the  audience,  and  producing 
that  joy  in  beauty  for  beauty's  sake  without  which 
the  great  masterpieces  of  art  can  never  be  under- 
stood, I  will  not  here  speak ;  though  it  is  worth 
while  to  notice  how  Shakespeare  appreciated  that 
side  of  the  question  in  the  production  of  his 
tragedies,  acting  them  always  by  artificial  light,  and 
in  a  theatre  hung  with  black  ;  but  what  I  have  tried 
to  point  out  is  that  archaeology  is  not  a  pedantic 
method,  but  a  method  of  artistic  illusion,  and  that 
costume  is  a  means  of  displaying  character  without 
description,  and  of  producing  dramatic  situations 
and  dramatic  effects.  And  I  think  it  is  a  pity  that 
so  many  critics  should  have  set  themselves  to  at- 
tack one  of  the  most  important  movements  on  the 
modern  stage  before  that  movement  has  at  all 
reached  its  proper  perfection.  That  it  will  do 
so,  however,  I  feel  as  certain  as  that  we  shall  re- 
quire from  our  dramatic  critics  in  the  future 
higher  qualifications  than  that  they  can  remember 
Macready  or  have  seen  Benjamin  Webster;  we 
shall  require  of  them,  indeed,  that  they  cultivate  a 
sense  of  beauty.  "  Pour  etre  plus  difficile,  la  tache 
n'en  est  que  plus  glorieuse."  And  if  they  will  not 
encourage,  at  least  they  must  not  oppose,  a  move- 
ment of  which  Shakespeare  of  all  dramatists  would 
have  most  approved,  for  it  has  the  illusion  of  truth 


.THE  TRUTH  OF  MASKS  263 

for  its  method,  and  the  illusion  of  beauty  for  its  re- 
sult. Not  that  I  agree  with  everything  that  I  have 
said  in  this  essay.  There  is  much  with  which  I 
entirely  disagree.  The  essay  simply  represents  an 
artistic  standpoint,  and  in  aesthetic  criticism  attitude 
is  everything.  For  in  art  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
a  universal  truth.  A  Truth  in  art  is  that  whose 
contradictory  is  also  true.  And  just  as  it  is  only 
in  art-criticism,  and  through  it,  that  we  can  appre- 
hend the  Platonic  theory  of  ideas,  so  it  is  only  in 
art-criticism,  and  through  it,  that  we  can  realize 
Hegel's  system  of  contraries.  The  truths  of  meta- 
physics are  the  truths  of  masks. 


JETTY  CENTER  LIBRARY 

3  3125  00139  6155 


